


City that Works

by PromisesArePieCrust



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-05-22 01:31:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 31,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6065661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PromisesArePieCrust/pseuds/PromisesArePieCrust
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Modern AU with role reversal. Set in Chicago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As I’ve written dialogue for Phryne and Jack in other fics, I’ve noticed how often a line I’d written for one would work for the other; hence came the inspiration for this. I cringe a little at the cultural...not quite appropriation...displacement, perhaps. I have loved learning about Australia from the show, the books, and researching fics, and I will promptly return them to our favorite Island-Continent-Country as soon as I’m done with this little fic. There are just some plot lines and time lines that work a little better if they are American. Of course aljohnson has her lovely modern AU, so a shout-out and thank you to her. Finally, I recently figured out how to prevent my computer from automatically changing what I write to Standard British spelling, so this will be in American English (which is both fitting for this story and my native orthography). It’s probably not as jarring to the reader as I imagine, but I thought I’d mention it. ;-)

Officer Phryne Fisher closed and locked the door to her basement apartment, then bent at the waist to begin stretching for her run. The February sun was just peeping above the horizon, and it was warm enough that her nose hairs weren’t even freezing as she breathed in. “A promising start,” she said to herself, beginning a light jog toward The Lake.

Her running gradually picked up and she sprinted for several minutes, but once to the water she took some time to calm her breath, watching the changing light. Her wedding band felt heavy at her knuckle, her cold-shrunken fingers making it in danger of slipping off entirely. She took the ring off, examined it, then looked back at the water. After several minutes she tucked it in the pocket of her running pants designed for energy gel.  
__

Jack Robinson woke with a long, gratified stretch as the sun began to infiltrate the window blinds of his Lincoln Park townhome. The lithe form next to him began to stir. “Good morning,” he whispered, not quite certain how to address her. It definitely began with a ‘T’--Tammy, Tessa--but it wasn’t worth the risk of a wrong guess. “Would you like some coffee?” he asked with a warm, sincere smile and a rub of her shoulder. “Mmm. That would be awesome,” came her husky reply. 

He padded over to the intercom to address his housekeeper on the first floor. “Benedykta, would you start two coffees please? We’ll be down in a sec.” Grabbing his robe and helping T find her clothing, they eventually made their way to the kitchen, where Benedykta had started breakfast and Jack’s niece was sitting at the counter, her school uniform crisp and neat. He bent over and kissed her cheek, with a soft “Good morning, Jane,” then turned to the fridge: “Orange juice?” he asked of T. “No thanks, just coffee,” she responded. Jack surreptitiously made eye contact with Jane who took her cue, extending her hand to the guest. “Hello, I’m Jane.” “Oh, hi, I’m Tabatha.” Jack sent Jane a little smirk of gratitude over Tabatha’s shoulder.

\---

Officer Fisher sat at her desk, smoothing the curled edges of a long-used, often-handled case file. She didn’t hear him when he appeared at her office door.

“Officer Fisher,” he said with a wide, charming smile, leaning against the doorframe, his arms loosely crossed at his chest. His suit was impeccable; the man must privately employ a tailor to work only on his wardrobe--every shirt, every pair of pants, every jacket hanging in a way to make GQ models seem sloppy. She closed her eyes, then fluidly shut the case file and turned it over, obscuring its name.

“Well, Jack Robinson, P.I. To what do I owe the pleasure?” she asked as she removed her reading glasses and gently rubbed her eyelids. 

“Mmm, I’m glad we’ve finally acknowledged that it _is_ a pleasure.” It didn’t seem possible but his grin widened. 

She smiled in spite of herself.

“Jesus, Jack. Shut up. What do you want?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Lake is Lake Michigan, which is, somewhat hilariously, roughly the size of the country I now live in (Switzerland). It is beautiful and feels like an ocean and one of the best things about Chicago.
> 
> Garden apartments/basement apartments are pretty common in Chicago (I don’t know about the rest of the U.S.?). I don’t think they were ever originally intended to be inhabited, and, depending on how well they are renovated, they can be really dark and musty, and, as a result, somewhat cheap to rent.
> 
> I’m on holiday this week, but train-time is usually good writing-time, so I hope to be able to post next week. Tschus!


	2. Chapter 2

“Just park up here,” Phryne instructed.

Jack eyed the facade, the cheap beer banner the only noticeable decor. 

“Are you taking me to a cop bar?” His voice was thick with amusement and disbelief. “The Green Mill is literally two miles down the street--”

“I’m not in the mood for an $18 martini, Jack. And it is not a _cop_ bar, it’s just a bar, which has the advantage of being very close to my apartment.”

He let that statement hang for some moments, unwilling to press, but eventually, as he put the car in park and grabbed the key, he spoke quietly: “I thought you lived in Wicker Park.”

“I did. And now just my husband does,” she answered, equally quietly. He nodded and neither spoke. She opened the car door and the crisp whirl of air shocked them both into a hasty jog toward the bar door. 

“I’ll grab some drinks,” she said, as they dropped their coats and bags at a not-too-crusty table. She walked up to the bar, clearly somewhat familiar with the bartender. Amongst the sharp clank of pool balls, Jack had a brief daydream, imagining her here after hours, maybe enjoying herself? He smiled a little as he watched her. Her physique was very slim and muscular and her movements fluid, but somehow he always got the image of a wire strung too tightly. Her look was prim: black braid at the nape of her neck, sedate post earrings, the occasional pearl necklace. But he knew she wasn’t passionless. In fact, he suspected just the opposite--someone who felt so much that she thought it safest to mute her feelings. 

Last month, a friend of his from school was in a Chicago Shakespeare Theater production, which Jack and another friend had planned to attend to support him. When his friend had to cancel, leaving Jack with an extra ticket, he casually offered it to Phryne. It was a history play and he was not terribly thrilled to go except to see his friend perform, so he was a little surprised by the eagerness with which Phryne accepted the ticket. The best he was hoping for was a nice evening with some friends. What he found, however, was that he couldn’t stop watching Phryne out of the corner of his eye. She seemed to know many of the soliloquies, words occasionally springing to her lips as the actor spoke them. But it wasn’t the dull appreciation of the academic; she was _there_ \--present, excited, moved. He finally looked away, a little embarrassed, as her eyes brimmed with tears at the end of the show. She wouldn’t want him to see that, he reasoned. But in a tiny corner of his brain, he knew it was self-preservation. It was the same part of his brain that acknowledged that watching Phryne, in the dark, flushed with excitement, being moved to tears by 400 year old words, was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. 

He watched her bring the drinks back, nodding a ‘thank you,’ and clinking glasses. Her gaze shifted from alert to pensive very quickly. She had that habit, as if she wanted to be present, but something always pulled her away.

“Pool?” Jack ventured, hoping to relax her a bit. 

“Not tonight. I have an early deposition tomorrow.”

“Okay then, I’ll cut to the chase. In another case I’ve been working on I came across some memos. They were rather cryptic, but...well, I’d frankly like you to take a look. Because if they mean what I think they mean, it could be very ugly.”

“Okay. Context? How did you get access to these memos?”

Jack smiled and cocked an eyebrow, and it was enough of a clue that Phryne knew it would be better not to ask. She gave a sigh and tried to order her thoughts on the best way to proceed with her questions.

“Alright. What exactly do these memos indicate?”

“It feels weird to say it out loud, but, well, you know those string of homeless deaths?”

“Yes. Not terribly uncommon this time of year.”

“Yeah, no, not really. But these things, these memos I found came from the mayor’s office, and,” he spoke a little quieter, a little more intensely “Phryne, I get the sense that they are trying to deal with the “homelessness problem” in a very unorthodox manner.”

Phryne blanched. “You must be mistaken.”

“I really hope so. Can you come by after your deposition?”


	3. Chapter 3

“Okay, Robert, can you tell us a little more about that?” The counselor's voice was calm and professional, and gave Phryne hope, as if witnessing the painful decay of a marriage weren’t something extraordinary.

“Oh, I don’t know. We’ve been through this so many times. Honestly, we could have this argument in our sleep.” 

The small office hummed with white noise machines and fans to guarantee privacy from passers-by in the beautiful, old, multi-use building. It made the room feel like an airplane cabin, claustrophobic and soporific, occasionally punctuated with the trill of singers in lessons in neighboring rooms. The distant cacophony did appeal to Phryne, however, reminding her that life was out there--exciting, loud-- if only she could penetrate the muted, disorienting, humming indifference she found herself in most of the time. 

“I’d say we noticed it early in our marriage, but by the time she came home…”

“Can you remind me when you returned from Iraq?”

“2006.” 

“And how long were you there?”

“Three years,” Phryne spoke evenly and quietly. The counselor marked her file.

Robert continued, “but by the time she came home, it reached a pitch I could only barely cope with. Just...moody, introverted, nothing appealed to her. I couldn’t get her to engage, you know? Everything was about police work. She’d come to my events, but...you could see it, she was there in body but not spirit. And then, once we tried to deal with the baby thing...” he trailed off not sure if there was more to say.

“Have you utilized any services from the VA office?”

“I went to some group sessions.”

“But you stopped?”

“I usually found myself more raw afterward.”

“Ms Fisher, you said you are close to your parents. Anyone else you confide in? Do you have a close friend?”

Phryne shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “I’m not sure what that has to do with...”

“I’m just trying to assess...it sounds like you had a hard time in the war. Is that correct?”

Uncertainty who were combatants and who were villagers, children with firearms, ordering people to their deaths. Who had an easy time in the war?

“Yes, I have a friend. A colleague. He was a combat medic.” Phryne was unwilling to continue, though they waited several seconds for her to do so. Finally the counselor pressed her lips together and nodded.  
___

Phryne climbed the stairs to Jack’s townhouse, hearing giggling on the other side of the door just before she knocked. Surely Jane would have left for school by now?

Jack opened the door, still dressed in his pajamas. He smiled his surprise at seeing her and rubbed his eyes.

“Good morning! That was a speedy deposition.”

“Yes, it was pretty straight forward.”

“Jenny was just on her way out.”

“Sure, yeah, I’ll leave you to it. I’m just gonna run to the bathroom.” She dashed down the hall, annoyed at her fluttering stomach.


	4. Chapter 4

Jack made his way down the stairs, showered and dressed, rubbing his damp hair with one hand and holding a coffee mug with the other. Phryne sat at his dining table, teacup in hand, sorting through the pieces of evidence Jack referred to the night before-- some of them handwritten memos, some of them emails. She looked up at him as he appeared at the doorway.

“Yes, something is definitely weird.” She returned her teacup to the saucer. “I can’t make heads or tails of most of it, so many codewords.” The smell of his freshly applied deodorant and cologne caught her off guard. She felt a bit embarrassed at the intimacy of it, then silly for feeling embarrassed. She shook herself mentally and continued, “I don’t know what clues to follow, except to check with the coroner and see if he noticed anything peculiar or similar in the bodies found on these dates.” 

“Would they even have done an autopsy?”

“I really don’t know. It was likely obvious that hypothermia was the cause of death, so probably not. I’ll have to check. But there must be some paperwork to follow, or belongings that could be searched, even if they didn’t do an autopsy.”

“And did you notice this little gem?” He leaned toward her and pointed at the sheet directly in front of her. The smell of expensive coffee on his breath mingled with the other scents. She feared she might have swayed a bit and mentally scolded herself. She focused her eyes to the line in the memo Jack indicated, the initials of a PR rep at the mayor’s office seemingly used as a signature.

“Oh, and I almost forgot. Dot found something else last night.” He reached for his laptop, bringing it to the table and began searching his emails, talking softly to himself as he did so.

Phryne watched him, noting the energy that he infused into everything he did. Even looking at his computer screen, which gave most people a dull zombie-glaze, made him look full of magic, like he was watching something fascinating unfold. 

She tried to shake the image of Jenny in the foyer not 20 minutes ago, glowing and contented, eager to start her own day. She wasn’t shocked; Phryne realized early in their partnership that Jack liked overnight company. She also learned early that he was strongly averse to romantic love, and seemed skilled at finding bed partners of a like mind. She marvelled a little at this, the mechanics of short-term lovers completely beyond her understanding. She would truly not know where to begin, how to start such an encounter, but she tried to indulge in the fantasy. What would that kind of life be like, to sleep with people she didn’t know? To revel in the excited pull of each new encounter, each new combination finding a unique chemistry? To not care equally if it was a terrible match or a wonderful match, since it wasn’t meant to last?

Her partnership with Jack had grown gradually and, initially, against her better judgement. Her first impressions of him were very poor, put off not only by his arrogance in believing he could, by reading books and watching television shows she presumed, become an expert in crime solving, but also by his complete lack of regard for his personal safety. She shuddered to think of some of the situations she found him in, smirk in place and firearm in hand, like some libertarian vigilante from Montana. Months later, she still found him crazy-making; but she trusted his instincts and found him to be more prepared than he let on. The final reversal of her appraisal of his character came when he, to her great confusion, fought his parents ferociously for custody of his niece.

Certain she had misjudged something—either his character or his motives or both— Phryne finally succumbed to her curiosity during that custody battle and pulled whatever she could find on Jack Robinson. She found quite a lot. She found what caused that little bump in the bridge of his nose next to the slightly crooked part, and why he holds his left thumb a little oddly; why, in short, he wanted Jane away from his father. She also found some transcripts from a court case and some copies of foreign police records, detailing some ugly business with a French girlfriend. She found his service record, indicating that he was decorated. She found the car crash that took his brother some years back, and his brother’s wife’s more recent institutionalization. And she found that he was one of _those_ Robinsons, the family at the heart of a high drama during her childhood.

She remembered when Janey Robinson went missing. Janey was about her age, and the newspapers made an ongoing story out of her disappearance, in love with the melodrama not only of a missing child, plucked from her family after a ride on the Ferris Wheel, but a family which, mere months later, moved from rags to riches. She remembered the bizarre tabloid updates, the children’s faces blurred, and the spectacle the patriarch seemed to be making of himself on the North Shore. But mostly, Phryne remembered Janey-- a girl her own age, with pigtails and newly pierced ears, just like her own; she remembered confusion that Navy Pier could be a place of tragedy; she remembered her parents holding her a little tighter.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he jarred her from her reverie, turning the computer screen to her.

“You couldn’t possibly,” she managed, voice a bit weak. He fixed her with a puzzled look, unsure what to make of her comment. When she didn’t give any further clues, he gave an uncertain half-laugh, then continued,  “Well, I know your case load is killer right now. If you could get me access to the info from the coroner, I’ll follow up. I’ll take care of it.”

“I’m sure you will, Jack Robinson.”


	5. Chapter 5

He’d chosen the restaurant because he liked it, because it was far enough away from her old neighborhood that he figured she wouldn’t feel uncomfortable, and because it was quiet. All good, solid reasons. What he’d forgotten, and what he was remembering as he sat on the El, listening to a completely indecipherable message over the PA system, was how exceedingly romantic the place was. Tables were mostly only for two, it was dimly lit, and the chairs at each of the small tables were very close, which, granted, was practical for easy access to the shared fondue pot, but the low light and live classical guitar music made the tenor of the place very clear, as did the starry-eyed, hand-holding patronage. He almost texted her to-- what, cancel? Relocate? But instead he instructed himself to _calm down_. Certainly an evening in a cozy restaurant with the stoic and proper Phryne Fisher was nothing to get in a tizzy about. Not that stoic and proper was all that he thought about her; she certainly surprised him sometimes. But, anyway, he had some updates on the case. And he enjoyed her company. And...whatever. He was over-thinking this.

Glancing at his watch, he figured that the garbled announcement must have been about a delay. He watched the fat snowflakes whirl past the window, smiling, thinking that at least it was appropriately fondue weather, then pulled out his phone and texted her that he’d be a little late.  
__

He saw her seated near the wall and watching the classical guitarist with a rather faraway look. He approached her cheerfully.

“Hey! Sorry; the brown line was a mess.”

“No problem. I haven’t been here long.” 

He could see she had been wearing her reading glasses recently by the small pink marks on either side of her nose. And she wore lipstick, a bright red that wasn’t fashionable per se, but made her smile very noticeable and contrasted beautifully with her hair. She also looked uncomfortably warm, her hair a little damp at her neck and her fair skin flushed. His eyes glanced down and he noticed she had unbuttoned the top few buttons of her blouse, revealing waffle-patterned long underwear with a tiny bow at the neckline. It was hardly risque; it was, in fact, charmingly un-risque, but Jack was still unsettled.

“Sorry; the station has been freezing lately so I’ve been wearing extra layers, but now I’m burning up,” she said, noticing his glance and billowing her shirt a few times to circulate some air.

“Well, our fine city has shown time and again how well it allocates funds,” he offered, pulling out his chair with forced nonchalance. “No need to go there,” she smirked back at him. As he pulled up the wine menu at his place setting, Phryne began to stand, pointing to the bathroom. “I’m going to get out of my extra layers. Could you order me another glass of wine if the waiter comes by?” 

“Sure thing.” 

He sat, heart-rate a little elevated, considering perhaps he should have just re-heated some of Benedykta’s perogies and invited Phryne for a nightcap; but eventually he gathered his wits and ordered drinks for the both of them and asked them to bring the first course. Pushed to the side of the table he saw her reading glasses lying on a slim book he couldn’t make out upside down. He was about to reach for it when he saw her walking back to the table.

“What is that you’re reading? A trashy romance?”

At that she gave an unexpectedly loud laugh. It was low and almost like a cackle and amazingly resonant. Jack had never heard it before, and he looked up, mesmerized, surprised, delighted.

“Sorry, that wasn’t that funny. It’s been a week...and the wine. But I guess it could be considered trashy romance. Shakespeare’s sonnets.”

He smiled at her as the waiter brought their drinks and a caquelon with boiling cheese.

There was a lulling comfort with the guitar music and the warmth of the fire, set against the gathering snow and biting wind outside. He was hesitant to break the spell, finding Phryne very at ease. He watched her, noting that even when relaxed she brought an earnestness and sincerity to her efforts, currently trying to find the most efficient way to stack and combine some of the dinner offerings.

They had finished most of the cheese course before he spoke. “It seems Pete Dawn, the PR guy at the mayor’s office, has a lot of relationships around the city. The Department of Streets and Sanitation and the Medical Examiner’s Office being especially notable. Do you know him through your husband?” 

“Yeah, I’ve met him a few times.”

“He was a big part of the push for the failed Olympic bid, right?”

“Yes, I remember something about that.” She sat for a few moments trying to recall anything else about him.

“Does this put you in an awkward position with Robert’s job?”

“No. Well I’m sure it will put his _office_ in an awkward position, but he wouldn’t have had anything to do with it, I’m sure.”

He gave her a look.

“I’m certain. I’ve known him for nearly twenty years. It’s not...he wouldn’t.”

Jack nodded quietly as he scraped some of the browned cheese with his fork.

“So he was your college sweetheart?” More forced nonchalance. 

“Yes. College sweetheart.” 

The waiter returned with fruit and chocolate and another glass of wine.

“Were you his RA?” he teased lightly.

She snorted. “You always have me pegged as some kind of authority figure, do you?” 

“You bear it naturally and gracefully.”

She smiled. “Well, you’re not too far off. He told me he first noticed me when he saw me in my ROTC uniform. His father was a policeman; he has always been drawn to the pomp and security...the regularity of a uniform. Of any custom, I’d say.”

“And you?”

“I suppose. Once more than now. I do like customs...”

“But?”

Her eyes became unexpectedly wet. She spoke slowly and with some difficulty. “I’m not the woman my husband married 16 years ago.”

He considered several responses to this statement, few of which were entirely appropriate. Eventually, he said quietly “Who could be.”

She took a slow breath through her nose. “No, I failed him.” She paused and shook her head, ordering her thoughts, unsure if the wine was helping or hindering her thought process. “The things I used to be excited about, the interests that we used to share, we didn’t any longer...and I wanted to, I wanted to be excited about...a weekend in Puerto Rico or a gala at the Drake, or something. I wanted to _want_ to plan our next vacation or organize a brunch.” She paused. “He felt he was just dragging me, pulling me along most of the time...he probably was. No, he was.” 

He wanted to say ‘You are compassionate and interesting, and you are not less than your husband married 16 years ago, but probably much more; your life experiences have softened you and hardened you in such a beautiful and fascinating combination.’ He wanted to show her that he understood, tell her that ten years seems like a long time, but it isn’t, and there isn’t a timeline on healing. He hoped some of it came across in the look they shared.

“Who was your first love?” 

She surprised both of them with her question. 

He looked up and smiled wanly. “Someone I’d rather forget.”


	6. Chapter 6

She lay in Shavasana, knowing full well she was doing it wrong. Her body was exhausted and relaxed on the yoga mat, but her mind could not empty, and no amount of New Age music and dim lights could make it. Several minutes in she gave up the attempt, instead giving herself over to the monkey mind. There were several things tumbling around in there, vying for attention--events, emotions, people...a person. Largely one person. She gave an audible sigh. Damn it.

A few nights ago they had shared a fondue dinner, and he had looked at her with such kindness. It was killing her.

It was not that she thought her…friendship?…with Jack was endangering a reconciliation with Robert. Their last-ditch effort with their latest marital counselor ended after only a few sessions. And while she had had her new apartment for nearly three months, in truth, they had been living apart even in their shared house. The separate bedrooms were, initially, very helpful—with private space each greeted the other in a more social way, a politeness, which, while not as rewarding as intimacy, was much better than the hostility that had permeated their home previously. As they grew more senior in their positions at work and began devoting more time to their careers, they found that, while not ideal, they had successfully led semi-happy parallel lives for the better part of seven years. Well, perhaps semi-happy was overstating it a bit, but she wasn’t extremely anxious or miserable. She had given up hope of intimacy, which saddened her, but her life had a rhythm and she felt somewhat secure. So she was a little startled when Robert had asked her to move out.

But last week Robert mentioned Sydney and their developing relationship, and it all fell into place. She didn’t blame him for his interest in her. She was beautiful and cheerful and always seemed to know the right thing to say. Phryne had met her several times at events through the mayor’s office, and had known her to be in contact with Robert. Truly, Phryne felt relief— and that is what angered her. Because after she realized she felt relief, she recongnized her cowardice. Why hadn’t she started this dialogue? Was it apathy? Depression? She had essentially forced Robert to be the one to make a decision to end their marriage, again making true his complaint that he was ‘pulling her along’. And if she didn’t ask for the separation, why hadn’t she asked for more intimacy, if that’s what she wanted? When did she lose her ability to act with purpose, with agency? She was confident and proficient in her work, and the contrast to her private life was noticeable. So while she felt relief, it was mixed with a heavy dose of shame; shame at her cowardice, at her inconsistent mental health, at hiding behind ‘duty’. 

And now, adding to this cocktail of difficult emotions, were her confusing and consistent thoughts about Jack. 

Jack! If there were anyone _less_ likely to be a safe harbor, she couldn’t imagine him. Yes, fine, he was joyful and kind. And warm, and…good looking. But he was also impetuous, self-absorbed, impatient. He acted impulsively. Addicted to adrenaline; a bratty…pleasure-seeker. A hedonist. In essence, a stunted child. Yes, she liked him, and yes, he surprised her and challenged her and she trusted him with her life. But not with her battered heart. Really, even if it were a perfectly functioning, healthy heart. No. Not him. 

But her brain would not let go of that damned kiss.

It was in the middle of their last case. They had sat in his car waiting, acting on a tip she could only hope wouldn’t put her on thinner ice with the chief of detectives. They had begun discussing leaving, considering it a bust, when they heard footsteps, a group of clacking steps in the alley. It was drizzling, and their shoes made a moist crunch on the pavement as they exited the car. Phryne and Jack made for a nearby dumpster, then peeked out from behind it just in time to see that they had chosen the worst, most visible side of the building for their stakeout, mistaking the entrance for an unused door. They heard a shout and realized they’d been spotted; they also realized they were outnumbered by about half a dozen. They dashed through the alley, ending up on a residential street, running through the lawns of brick three-flats. They made it through another alley, and heard their pursuers continue behind them, but were hopeful that the mist and darkness could obscure them enough to get lost in some garden. They started for another street and then came upon the enormous lawn of a high school, unexpectedly tucked in the middle of the neighbourhood. It was open and brightly lit—they were completely exposed. They heard their pursuers close the distance. “Shit,” she muttered, turning around to catch Jack’s amusement at her vulgar language. They were breathing heavily from the chase, and, uncertain what else to do, she grabbed his lapels, sat him on the ledge of a front stoop, and whispered “Calm your breath.” She then threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, sloppily and enthusiastically, a deep and involved kiss. He was seated at about her thigh-height, and she insinuated herself between his legs. He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into him. She was reasonably sure she groaned. Their labored breathing and apparent obliviousness to a noisy group of men running by appeared perfectly suited. What was possibly minutes later—she couldn’t be sure—maybe it was only some seconds?—they slowed and their lips released while their noses stayed touching. She briefly scanned his face and was grateful he seemed as discombobulated as she was. “I think they’ve gone,” he whispered eventually, still quite close. “Mmm hmm,” she croaked through closed lips. She turned around and closed her eyes for a few beats before walking away a little unsteadily.

He teased her the next day about it, but it had been mercifully light, and they hadn’t mentioned it since.

And now, here she was, thoroughly aroused just thinking about it in a yoga class. Damn it.

As she rolled her mat and gathered her things, she checked her phone, noticing a new text from Jack. They had hit a wall with the case involving the missing homeless people; the medical examiner’s office had nothing to offer in the way of autopsy, personal belongings, or, most suspiciously, consistent information or dates. Jack had followed up with everything he could, ending with Pete Dawn in the mayor’s office, but that had also dried up. So, she was curious what was up. His message read: 

“I got a letter. Could you come tonight?”

She wondered if maybe it was a threat, and responded as she pulled on her boots: “Re Dawn?” 

Her breath caught as she read his response:

“No. About my sister. It’s about Janey.”


	7. Chapter 7

Jack’s Polish was passable, but he wasn’t sure if Benedykta knew that. He had made a few attempts to speak to her in Polish, but he was rusty and must have come across as incompetent, because she would just smile and say “English is fine.” But she would chatter away in that melodic, shushing language to her granddaughter, Dorota, commenting on Jack, or things that needed to be done around the house, or sometimes his visitors, within his earshot. She was never judgemental, just conversational. In truth, he wasn’t sure how much English she did know, and believed she largely relied on intuition to fulfil her job. Whatever her system, he found her incomparable. He’d had too many domestic aides to count, and Benedykta was, without exaggeration, little short of magic. 

Dot had just finished highschool and was doing an apprenticeship as a hairdresser, but was often with her grandmother. When she once ran a somewhat tricky errand for Jack, he realized that she was as savvy as her grandmother, and employed her to help him with things like background checks and online research, though she had become more adventurous lately. Jack was especially grateful to have her around after Jane came to live with him. The two girls were close in age, and quickly developed a genuine affinity for each other. He counted any cushion to Jane’s short but difficult life a blessing.

Now he could hear Benedykta in the kitchen, telling Dot she was sure something was wrong; that Jack had been distracted for the past two days and had not been eating well, and wondered if Dot knew anything about it. He was pulled from his eavesdropping by the doorbell, and shouted that he’d answer it. 

He opened the door to Phryne and invited her into the hall, from which the rest of the first floor was visible. He wasn’t sure what Phryne imagined his household would look like at 5:00 on a Saturday, but he could see this wasn’t it. Benedykta and Dot sat at the kitchen counter, peeling potatoes and cutting vegetables for the evening meal, while a pleasant scent of simmering soup hung in the air. Jane and a schoolmate were at the dining table, listening to the radio and cutting out construction paper figures and gluing them to poster board for a school project. The house was vibrant with the pleasant hum of people and activity, and the whole scene was, he supposed, startlingly domestic.

“Thanks for coming,” he said, and he must have sounded and looked as exhausted as he felt, because the look of concern on her face was unmistakeable.  


“I’m okay,” he assured her, “just rattled. It’s a little noisy down here; let’s go upstairs.” He could see she was wondering if he meant to the bedrooms. “To the roof deck,” he added. She nodded and stopped unzipping her coat, reversing the action to zip it up again. Jack grabbed his coat from the hook and they went up the two flights to the rooftop.

He had never spoken to Phryne directly about Janey. He knew she knew about Janey because he had seen a file on her in her office. When he saw it his heart wrenched-- first at the shock (though she was never far from his mind), then at the realization that Phryne knew, and finally at the realization that she was probably looking at it not out of idle curiosity but as a professional who might be able to help. He felt many things at seeing the file, but most overwhelmingly he was touched. 

On the roof, the air was cool but still, and the low winter sun gave some extra warmth. It was a nice view of the city, landmarks visible in every direction. She hadn’t been up here before and took a few moments to orient herself. She looked north. “Huh,” he heard. 

“What is it?” 

“Oh, nothing. Just my building. It’s funny to be able to see it from this far.” 

He walked up behind her and looked out. “Ah yes, and your favorite bar.” She looked up at him and smiled. He felt relieved that he could smile too. Just her presence eased some of the strain of the past couple of days.

She turned toward him, and he began. “I got a letter from an inmate at the Cook County Jail, a man named Garcia. He says he knew Foyle, the man suspected of her kidnapping, that they spent a lot of time together. He says he knows where she is, where Janey is. He wants me to meet with his cousin to arrange some kind of a deal. It’s pretty unclear what kind of deal, but I’m guessing money because he says he’ll be released soon.” He handed the letter to Phryne, who read it over, then looked up at him. 

“Phryne, he didn’t say ‘buried,’ he just said ‘is.’”

“Jack…” he could tell what she thought. Even he could hear the note of desperate, unreasonable hope in his voice.

“Do I have anything to lose?” 

He could tell she was weighing her words, trying to be careful. “I’m not saying don’t follow up, Jack, but I feel very suspicious that this is anything more than an attempt to get money or favors.”

He nodded, then drifted away, thinking, absently taking the letter back and folding it into his pocket. Phryne sat on one of the deck chairs and watched him patiently.

“My brother, Paul, was oldest. He was meant to ride with her that day. We three were waiting in line together, and I was so taken with the Ferris Wheel, the size, the movement--it seemed so impossibly tall. How was it not going to fall over? I started to get nervous and asked if I could ride with Paul instead.” His throat felt tight and he swallowed hard. “Janey laughed and launched herself into the carriage in front of us and we went behind her. It was amazing, to see so far. To feel that liberated and frightened at the same time. My heart was racing the entire ride. When the car slowed and we got out-- it was only a matter of seconds after she had to have gotten out, but we couldn’t see her anywhere.”

He was beginning to shake, and she stood and embraced him, slipping her arms through the sides of his open coat to reach around to his back. He had been cold but didn’t know it until he felt her warmth through his sweater. Her hug was a tenderness that caught him off guard, and he felt hot tears begin to well and spill. “It should have been me,” he finally said. 

He had had that thought for most of his life, but had never said it out loud. Hearing it had an emotional intensity he wouldn’t have expected. Tears began to fall faster and he had a hard time catching his breath. He felt her move her cheek to rest next to his and tighten her embrace, her strong arms a warm, soothing sanctuary. They began to sway a bit, the rocking motion calming him some more. 

Eventually, she whispered “It should not have been you. It shouldn’t have been anyone. And it’s not your fault.” He heard the conviction in her voice and felt grateful for it. 

They stayed that way for some time, the swaying motion gradually slowing until they were standing still. He felt her hands fall to his waist and his own move to her face; she tilted her head, and suddenly they were kissing, brief and salty.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean--” 

“No,” she interrupted. “ _I’m_ sorry, it was me…maybe. I think it was me.” She slowly withdrew her hands from around his waist and closed her eyes and shook her head, as if in confusion, but then a few seconds later her natural bearing took over and she stood tall and composed. She took both his hands and squeezed them, looking up at him. “I know you’ll do what you want, but please wait a bit. Don’t do anything rash. Let me at least see if this guy was ever even serving time in the same facility as Foyle, OK? Then we can take it from there.”

Jack nodded. She nodded back and, after another squeeze, released his hands, then made her way to the door. “Phryne?” he called, as she was almost through the door. She turned around. “Thank you.” She gave him a small almost-smile in acknowledgement before closing the door. 

Jack turned to sit on a deck chair for some minutes, breathing slowly to still his shaking hands.


	8. Chapter 8

Still dressed in her yoga clothes from earlier, she drove straight to the station after her talk with Jack. There was little that could be done immediately, but there were some things she could start on-- addresses to look up and emails to send. Doing _something_ , anything, would, she reasoned, help alleviate her distress at his distress...and distract her from thinking about what exactly happened on that roof deck.

Saturday evening was a busy time in her precinct, and the station was bustling. She nodded to a few colleagues, none of whom raised an eyebrow at seeing her on her day off, as she made her way to her office.

First she pulled what she could find on Garcia. She sent a request for his complete record, but from what she was able to gather from a cursory search, it seemed unlikely that he and Foyle would have crossed paths. Foyle was serving time in a federal prison, while Garcia’s letter came from the Cook County Jail. She searched Foyle’s court dates to see if he might have been temporarily held at the jail while awaiting a hearing, and when she didn’t come up with anything, she sent an email requesting these details. Finally, she looked up information on Garcia’s cousin, whom Jack was to meet according to the letter. Like Garcia himself, there were some drug charges, and he had been briefly incarcerated in 2008. She made note of his most recent address and checked if there had been any police activity there recently. 

After the tasks she could think to do were accomplished, she picked up Janey’s file. It was a reflex, a months-long habit-- a safe way to feel close to Jack without actually getting close to him. She recognized that reading and rereading a long-cold case was possibly not the healthiest response; that it was maybe a little obsessive, besides being an avoidance tactic. But she could think of many unhealthier responses. And, somehow, it helped. 

She didn’t feel love, she didn’t think; it wasn’t even an infatuation. It was a fascination, a desire to know more and to understand. He _cared_ about things, and argued, vehemently. Most days, she was surrounded by a very deep cynicism, by people who expected the worst of humanity, and who felt resigned to failure. Jack had a passion for this work, and an intelligence to match. He had a vigorous desire for the truth and a belief that things mattered. By his influence, she recognized a fire in herself that had been long extinguished. She had been deflated, floating, working cases on autopilot, and suddenly he was in her life, in her work, and she was alert, _had_ to be more alert, had to keep up with him.

She...appreciated him, and felt compelled to understand things about him. If she were an artist she probably would have sketched him, or a poet she would have written about him. A way to deconstruct, pick apart. As it was, as an officer of the law, she tried to protect him and chase his demons. 

She came in on Monday and checked through her email, relieved that some of the requests from the east coast had already been responded to. She spent the morning dealing with paperwork on some other cases, and, after another email came through about Garcia, considered if she should contact Jack with her progress. There was nothing solid yet, aside from a continued suspicion that Garcia was lying. But she was still waiting to find out about Foyle’s hearing dates, which would be the final verification she needed, so she decided to wait. 

She came out for some tea around 10:00, lingering and stretching after a morning at the computer. At the dispatch radio she heard the codes for a shooting, a fatality, and some details about the victim, an as-yet unidentified white male, about 6 feet tall. Then she heard the address and her stomach sank. She rushed back to her office and double-checked to see if she was remembering right, praying that she had made a mistake; but there in front of her on her notepad was the address she had jotted down on Saturday for Garcia’s cousin. With shaking hands she called Jack’s phone, but it went straight to voicemail. She called his house and Dot answered. “Is Jack around? It’s urgent.” She tried to keep her voice steady. 

“No, he left 40 minutes ago.” 

“Did he say where he was going or when he might be back?” 

“No, he didn’t say anything.”

“Please call my cell if he calls or if he comes back, ok? You have the number?”

“Yes, I have it.”

“Thanks.”

She hung up and gathered her coat and bag, searching frantically for the car keys that lay in plain sight in front of her. _God, Jack, what have you done?_


	9. Chapter 9

She drove to the address she'd heard on the dispatch radio, a small brick bungalow with bald dirt patches in the dead winter grass of a small yard. She saw a few marked police cars and felt a sick, desperate feeling when she noticed Jack’s car further up the street, just beyond an ambulance. She parked and spent a few moments collecting herself. She had lost colleagues before. She had lost men under her command as well. It was the life she knew.

She saw a stretcher emerge from the house with a body concealed by a white sheet. She opened her car door and addressed the medics. “I believe I can help identify the victim.” They looked over at her.

“It’s okay, Officer. He’s already been identified. Cops found a wallet in the house.”

“Do you mind if I look? He was a colleague.”

They looked at her a little oddly, but she continued toward the unmoving body on the stretcher. She wasn’t sure how it would help her, and distantly thought it was a strange instinct, to need to see, but she knew she needed to. She lifted her hand to the head and pulled back the sheet; she saw dark, almost black wavy hair and a vaguely familiar face. Her brain spun, trying to register her relief and solve where she might have seen this person. She looked up at the medics. 

“Ernesto Garcia?” she croaked out, scarcely believing it. The cousin.

“Yeah.”

She’d seen his mug shot, but only at a glance, and didn’t take note of his height or skin color, assuming that he was of native Mexican descent rather than Western European. 

“The cops are still talking to the guy who called it in,” he added, nodding to the house.

Phryne thanked him and turned toward the house, walking up the cement sidewalk to the porch. 

There were several police officers milling around, consulting with each other. She caught sight of Jack on the back porch and made her way there. Her relief at seeing him was at war with the enormous anger building within her. 

“I asked you to wait. You had no idea what situation you were walking into.” She startled him and he turned toward her.

“It couldn’t wait. Not any longer.”

“Why do you ask for my advice if you discount it immediately?” she all but spat out.

“I’d already sat on the letter for two days. Anything can happen to an incarcerated inmate. I didn’t want to wait.”

“So you put yourself into danger, with no regard for…” she paused, aware that her voice was reaching a pitch it seldom did. “Jack, Garcia and Foyle never served time together. Foyle couldn’t have confided in him.” 

“That doesn’t mean anything. Maybe he lied about knowing him, but it could have been second hand information. It could still be useful.”

“OK. Fine. You decide the ‘right way to proceed’ and ignore the _fools_ who are professionally _trained_ …” she felt ice creep up her spine as she realized suddenly that coming here might not have been the only impetuous thing Jack did this morning. It might have been Jack who shot Ernesto Garcia. She looked at him, assessing his state. Could this be the demeanor of someone who just killed a man? “Jack, what happened?”

“I’d only just gotten here. His wife and kids were in the main room so we came out to the back porch. Someone called his name from inside the house and he went back in. He must have asked his family to go to someplace else, because I heard them leave the house and drive away. It sent up my hackles so I ducked under the window. I couldn’t hear, but I would peek up occasionally. They were talking for a few minutes, but it didn’t seem strained. I was confused why he might have sent his family away. Then suddenly I heard gunshots, and I peeked up again and saw Garcia on the floor and the guy leave the house.”

Phryne gave herself a few moments to take all this in. Jack wasn't dead. He wasn't dead, and he hadn't killed someone. Abruptly, she turned back to the house. “I have to get back to the station.”

“You’re not on this case?”

“No. A detective will be here shortly to take your statement.”

She walked to her car calmly and without another look back.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn’t sure if the Polish connection with Chicago is common knowledge. The old saw is that Chicago has more Polish speakers than any city except Warsaw, Poland (though it’s possible London is now close?). At any rate, I don’t think London has anything akin to Pulaski Day, where the county government, libraries and schools shut down in honor of a military leader, who, while I’m sure was likely admirable, is mostly celebrated because he was Polish; the day is largely a tribute to the Polish community. (Londoners, please correct me if I’m wrong!) Anyway, Chicago=lots of Poles, lots of excellent Polish pastries. 
> 
> And yes, yes, I know, it's short. Please read slowly. More to come soon. ;-)

In the early evening, Jack piled some of Benedykta’s apricot kolaczki into Tupperware and made his way to the artisanal coffee and tea shop down the street from Phryne’s station, picking up a to-go cup of Earl Grey. At the station, her office door was closed, but he managed a knock, opening the door and bringing his offerings to her desk. 

“I’m guessing if you ate lunch, it wasn’t enough and it was too long ago.”

She eyed the pastries then looked up at him. She then closed her eyes. He did know how to make an entrance. 

“And am I meant to be beholden to you for these?”

“‘Beholden’ is rather dramatic.”

“What do you want?” 

She took the lid off of the tea and took a grateful sip. She _had_ skipped lunch, her stomach still in knots from earlier.

“You’re awfully sullen.”

“Is that not permitted?” Her look was warning and Jack softened his tone a bit.

“Why did you leave Garcia’s house this morning? You could have taken my statement.”

“It’s not your concern, Robinson.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Jack, are you here for anything of substance?” Despite her efforts, she could feel her heart rate increase. 

“You can’t be this angry at me simply because I met with Garcia before you gave me your official OK. What is it?”

“I asked you--”

“Yes, you asked me to wait, and I didn’t. Are you going to be angry at me every time I don’t do exactly what you ask of me?” He moved to her side of the desk and leaned against it; it wasn’t menacing, but it was intimate, and it made her uncomfortable. “I’m an adult, I made a judgement call.” He paused, not clear why she was avoiding looking at him. 

“Yes, your judgement. That’s what at issue.”

“The shooting had nothing to do with me. It was a coincidence. How can that be a fault of my judgement?” She stood up from her desk and paced, her hand at her forehead.

“Phryne, the guy was murdered. You know who finally came, which detective is on the case? Davidson. So you can imagine how well that went.” He paused, aware he wasn’t getting anywhere. “Garcia had a family. Yes, I have a personal interest, but it’s also a matter of principle, don’t you think?”

She sighed. She didn't expect to tell him, but it came tumbling out: “I thought it was you.” 

“What?”

“I heard the address on the dispatch, knew whose it was, heard there was a white male shot dead, and assumed it was you.” She stood across the room from him with her arms crossed.

“Ah.” 

He was fine, and she knew that, but it was obviously upsetting and there wasn’t much to say to that. 

“Do you trust my judgement? Do you believe I have your best interests at heart?” she continued.

“Yes, I trust your judgement! More than anyone’s. But are we not allowed to disagree? Do you want me to check in with you every time I make a move you might disagree with?”

Neither spoke for several moments. He took the Tupperware and held it up towards her. “Eat. Please. You look totally depleted.”

She admitted to herself that arguing with him was improving her mood marginally as well as releasing the knot in her stomach that had prevented her from eating lunch, so she crossed the room and took the proffered snack.

“So you’re angry I’m still alive?” He smiled at her; he meant it to be lighthearted, but as it came out, he thought it might have been the wrong thing to say. She paused and looked at him sideways, then continued chewing and walked back around the desk and sat down in her desk chair.

“You--” she couldn’t find an adequate noun, so she pushed his thigh with the heels of her palms. “Get off of my desk.”

“But it’s so much more comfortable than your guest chair.”

He grabbed her wrists, trying to keep her from pushing him off, and was a little startled at how strong she was.

“After I so valiantly restored your blood sugar level?” he pleaded, as with a final shove she reclaimed her desk top.

She half-smiled, gratified by her success, and grabbed a notepad. 

“Sit in the chair and tell me what you told Davidson. Ugh. She is going to hate us even more.”


	11. Chapter 11

“You look far away.” His brown eyes were large and sincere.

She took an unhurried sip of her whiskey. 

“Don’t most people who sit at a bar look like that?” she teased lightly. She was getting the hang of flirting again. 

Conrad Fabrizi was the kind of man her mother would have wanted her to marry. He had a warm, easy smile. Neighborhood kids loved him and would gather around him. He worked with his hands, designing and building sets for several theater companies. And she didn’t think there was an angsty bone in his body. He’d had plenty of trials, some of them tragic, but he took them with a mild, philosophical shrug of his broad shoulders. 

He tended bar in the evening at the place near Phryne’s apartment, and, on several occasions they had shared dinner. She was still wearing her wedding ring when their acquaintance had begun, and though she never mentioned her husband and eventually she stopped wearing her ring, their dinners never felt explicitly like dates. She enjoyed his company, but that was the extent of it. To her understanding, he also had a questionable relationship status. She knew he was widowed, and knew that he was tentatively engaged to the daughter of a friend of the family, but he didn’t seem excited (or distressed) about marrying again. “It’s in God’s hands,” he had said once. She hadn’t cared to pursue that conversation. 

It was Conrad’s even keel that she found soothing at such a tumultuous time in her life, but it was the self same thing that niggled. Though he was Italian by heritage, the phrase that always went through her head when she saw him was a German one: “Es ist mir egal.” _Whatever. It’s all the same to me._ It seemed to be his anthem. It was also a little startling to realize that, to some extent, it was the same complaint Robert had made about her.

But, Conrad was right: she was far away. Her thoughts were everywhere but here in this bar. She was thinking about the newly signed divorce papers sitting on her kitchen table. She was thinking about what she would have done if Jack had been killed earlier today. And she was thinking about the partial phone call she’d overheard in the parking lot as she and Jack went to their separate vehicles, after they had exhausted everything they could think to cover related to the Garcias, imprisoned or extinguished. Of the phone call, she’d only heard a muffled “Beautiful Lady,” but knew precisely who was on the other end of the line, and what the response was. She’d heard it before, the baffling endearment Jenny gave him: Silver Man. 

Phryne knew Jenny Lin only peripherally. She knew she and Jack had met the night Jack took her to see his friend perform at the Chicago Shakespeare Theater, and that she had flitted in and out of his life since then. She knew she occasionally provided insight on some of his cases, and somewhat more regularly shared evening entertainment with him. 

Phryne had nothing against Jenny, and believed perhaps she and Jack were well-suited, though the thought made her own stomach flutter. But they lived in a similar world, and understood each other. And they shared an ease with money, both with having it and spending it, that Phryne could never approximate. Jenny had finished a Master of Business Administration at the University of Chicago, and was poised to take over the Lin family’s various enterprises in Chinatown when her father retired in the next year or two. She’d seen the two of them in the newspaper at various functions, and they were such a striking, elegant pair. They always looked like they’d stepped out of a magazine, as though they’d been professionally dressed and made up and put in front of a set. She half-wondered if Jack would reconsider his ban on romantic love for Jenny. And she firmly reminded herself that this wasn’t her business and didn’t matter to her. 

“Bella, I’m just running to the back for some bottles. Could you keep an eye on the bar for a couple minutes?” 

She nodded, and, making a dinner of bar pretzels, took a nibble along with another sip of whiskey. “Es ist mir egal,” she whispered, willing herself to believe it.


	12. Chapter 12

Outside of Jenny’s door, Jack heard the _ding_ of her phone, signalling a text. He knocked, and she opened the door and gave him a quick buss while responding busily at her BlackBerry. He smiled and shook his head.

“What?”

He followed her and sat down next to her on the sofa, putting a thumb and then his lips at her collarbone. “You and your phone.”

“I like the keyboard.”

“Yes, I know; that’s what you and the five other people who use a BlackBerry say.” He resumed his attentions despite her playful swat.

“Snob.”

He spoke against her skin, the vibrations making her shiver. “Jenny, you are far too perfect if the only thing I can tease you about is your choice of smartphone.” Another _ding_. “Who keeps texting you?”

“My grandmother.”

He gave a small laugh through his nose. “My biggest fan.”

“Oh, she likes you.” She paused. “Well, maybe that’s an overstatement.” She smiled at him, then took a small nibble at his lower lip. “She keeps sending me these Asian dating sites.”

“Tempting?”

“I don’t know,” she struggled a bit as his tongue swept up near her ear. “Certainly not right now.” 

Another _ding_. 

“Would you mind turning that off?”

She pivoted, quickly checked the message, switched it off and turned back to him.

“She doesn’t dislike you, how about that,” she offered, as she re-situated herself comfortably in his arms on the sofa. “She just doesn’t think you're the marrying type.”

They both froze. Jenny shifted a little awkwardly on the sofa then continued diplomatically, “Anyway, I’d prefer to be with someone for compatibility rather than heritage.”

They remained quiet and still. Finally, Jack gave her a small smile. He spoke softly. ”Do you think I’m the marrying type?”

She shifted her gaze down for a moment, then looked back at him. “I think you’d prefer for me to say ‘I haven’t given it much thought.’ Or, ‘I’m not at that place in my life.’ But neither of those things would be true.”

He nodded slowly. “I care about you.”

“I know,” she answered quickly, swiping tears away. She stood and took his hand, walking him to the door, and paused to press her lips to his cheek at the entryway, a bookend to her greeting only a few minutes ago. “Goodbye,” she whispered.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some brief descriptions of mental, physical and verbal abuse, specifically of Jack’s time in Paris.
> 
> On the bright side, we meet Mac. <3

Jack made his way to his car and sat for a while. Was he being stubborn, or immature? He trusted Jenny, he liked her, he got along with her; she was the closest thing to a girlfriend he’d had in many years. But he felt certain that the gnawing feeling in his gut was discomfort that he’d made her sad, not because he’d made a mistake.

He was aware that, in life, there is a general trend toward pairing off. When pressed why this was the case, people around gave him various arguments of questionable integrity. “Well, you grow up in a family, it’s what you know, what you’re used to...I suppose it’s just what we try to replicate,” one of his married friends told him. Though the idea of replicating his own family of origin made Jack grimace. “I just got tired of being lonely,” another friend had put it bluntly. This was certainly legitimate, but Jack was not lonely; he went out of his way to make ties. He didn’t avoid relationships in general, just ones that...ones that required the most maintenance? No, certainly his relationship with Jane required maintenance. Ones that he would be most vulnerable in, perhaps? 

He grew cold, sitting in his car outside of Jenny’s building, so he turned on the car to start the heater. He knew Jane was away and didn’t relish an empty house. He texted Mac.

“Are you busy?”

“For whiskey? Nope.” she responded promptly.

\---  
He dropped by a liquor store on the way to Mac’s condo, realizing it had been several weeks since their last nightcap.

“Hello, stranger. Pick your poison,” she gestured to her liquor cabinet. He handed her the bottle of Glenmorangie. “Well, don’t you know how to charm a girl? I’ll join you in a minute, I just need to shoot off an email.”

As he poured their drinks, he looked around the room, aware of several subtle changes. A novel that wasn’t exactly Mac’s usual taste; a cookbook with several post-it notes tucked in the pages to mark recipes.

She eventually joined him in the living room, tucking her legs up under her next to him on the sofa and taking a deep swig of her drink. 

“So, what’s kept you so busy the last few weeks?” he started.

“Oh, you know…” she trailed off.

“Oh, but I do. What’s her name?”

Mac slowly looked over at him and took another sip of her drink. “I wish you could know how obnoxious it is to be friends with a detective.”

“We don’t have to talk about it--”

“Good. Thank you.”

“--but if you do want to talk about it--”

“I don’t.”

“Ok.” 

He smirked at her, and she smirked back.

“And where were you tonight?”

“Briefly at Jenny’s.”

Mac nodded and waited for him to continue. 

“How is it rewarding to have a romantic relationship?” It came out quickly, like a throw-away line, but she could tell he was serious. And she was caught off guard. This wasn’t the usual tenor of their evenings. 

“So Jenny…”

“Was hoping for something… else. Something more.”

“I see.” She looked thoughtful, as though choosing her words carefully. “And it has nothing to do with Renee?”

He looked up, a little startled. “No,” he answered quickly.

But Mac had a point. It was not that Jack had never been tempted to pursue something more serious. When he first met Renee, he felt certain he was going to give his mother that lakeside wedding she’d been going on about since they first bought their extravagant North Shore home. 

Jack sat on Mac’s sofa, still in reverie, and, feeling a little nervous for having brought Renee up, Mac continued. “Well, I suppose there’s the biology. Though you know plenty about that. Sure, there’s the early flush of excitement and euphoria, that’s a little addictive. But even when that wears off… I don’t know, you just… you learn a lot more about yourself when you’re challenged by another person. Maybe that’s some of it. People who remain alone get used to having things their way, all of the time; there’s no challenge.” 

“You challenge me, Mac. I learn a lot about myself through you. And Phryne. So why on earth would I want or need to fall in love or be in a romantic relationship?”

She raised an eyebrow and smiled a sly smile. “Well, Jacko, I guess you've got it all figured out. Lucky you.” She finished her drink as a punctuation mark. 

“Don’t patronize me. I’m being serious.” 

She stood up and ruffled Jack’s hair. “Maybe I am too.” She picked up his glass. “Another?”

“No, I have my car. Just some water.”

As she refreshed her drink and retrieved his water from the kitchen, Jack sat motionless on the sofa, unbidden memories surfacing. Usually he pushed them back into the recesses, back into the darkness, but he wondered tonight if it was somehow important to let them come, let him remember. He was stronger; he had support. So, for the first time in ten years, he cautiously let them bubble up.

He had, to some extent, followed Mac to Paris after they met and served together in Iraq. She went to France to further her medical studies and improve her French, while Jack was just eager to avoid going back to Chicago and his father.

Renee was astonishing-- a native Parisian and such a life-affirming diversion after his time in Iraq. She was creative and lively and ferociously smart. She spoke her opinions so confidently, which was very compelling-- Jack had always been the spirited one, the instigator, and having someone else be bold and decisive was a relief he didn’t know he had craved. When they first met, he would have done anything for her, and happily.

The hurt from Renee was hard to pinpoint initially. The Gallic devotion to reason and hunger for a good argument is famous, and when she told him he was stupid, he wondered if he was just being an over-sensitive American, unaccustomed to having his ideas challenged. Or perhaps something was lost in translation, that his knowledge of French was omitting the kindness or kind-hearted teasing that was hidden in her words. She loved him, after all, she reiterated often. Even when she’d kicked him, a swift blow to the hip, he wasn’t entirely sure he didn’t deserve it. Suggesting he ask for money from his father, then taking control of their finances and keeping Jack on an allowance; the insistence that he stop meeting his friends...none of it on its own felt strange at the time. He was deeply in love. He was worthy of love! That on its own felt astounding. 

One night, she punched him in his sleep. This was when he finally reached out, finally contacted Mac for help. By this point, Renee had all of the bank cards and credit cards, as well as his passport, locked away somewhere. Mac took him to the US embassy; he didn’t know why he hadn’t thought of that. Watching the face of the bureaucrat who listened to his story--the hesitance to believe him, the reluctance to help--it made him feel ridiculous, ashamed. He stayed with Mac for several weeks until the paperwork for his departure was straightened out. She said she didn’t know how to be comforting; but her solid, non-judgmental presence was a greater help than she would have been able to realize.

 

On the sofa, Jack stirred as Mac returned with their beverages. They drank in silence, both lost in thought but pleased to have the other’s company.

When he left, he took her hand. “Whoever she is, she’s very lucky.” Mac gave him a slight smile. Jack smiled back, enjoying watching her feel shy, and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek.


	14. Chapter 14

It was drizzling as Jack made his way back to his car, still mulling over the evening. He was reluctant to let the topic of romance and its worth and pitfalls go completely. He knew there was more to unravel, though Mac had been flippant about his question, likely worried about giving away too much about her new paramour. 

Mac seemed to insinuate that his question was borne out of fear, that he didn’t want to love because he felt it would generally end as it did in Paris. But he did not fear loving--Jack loved very freely. He would have told Jenny that he loved her, and it would have been true. He only didn’t because it would have confused matters, as he didn’t want to marry her.

He was curious what Phryne would have thought about the conversation with Mac, being, herself, in a difficult relationship. He knew that her tastes ran more traditional, more conservative; he knew, for example, that she had dearly wanted a family, and that she still considered her marriage a marriage, despite their estrangement. This fit with the wider picture he had formed of Phryne, finding her, on the whole, to be very fond of protocol, of formality, of assessing what the right thing to do is and then doing it. She liked etiquette and standard operating procedure, things Jack himself had little regard for, as they felt like hiding, like an ineffective shield one uses against the attacks of a harsh world. He knew etiquette and a set of rules will not protect anyone. It was senseless to pretend otherwise. 

Yet Phryne had warned him once not to pigeonhole her. He grinned a little, imagining what it might be like if one day she proved him wrong about her. What would it be like if she said what she was thinking, instead of what was appropriate or right? What would it be like if she acted improvisationally, instead of with a directive? He supposed he had seen whispers of it, overheard some of her dry, off-handed remarks. And then of course, there was that kiss as they fled from the smugglers; that was impressively improvisational. His smile widened.

Rain clouds opened up, making the streets shiny and heavily reflective with a row of tail lights in the heavy traffic in front of him. He switched the windshield wipers to a higher setting.

Jack had cemented his own absurdist philosophy after the war and Renee, but it had been in development years before, during his horrifically isolating years at prep school and college. And really, even before then, after losing Janey and never knowing her fate. What sense could anyone make from that? One couldn’t. There was no sense. 

He remembered a dentist who told him that after watching tooth extractions and seeing how easily a tooth comes out, dental students will dream of their own teeth falling out. Jack found this held true as a combat medic, but with vitality. He watched so many people slip away, and regularly he dreamed of his own demise.

His biology teacher had once joked that ‘life is a sexually transmitted terminal condition.’ Jack had been the only one who laughed then, loudly, and even so many years later the truth of it was always near to him. With the constant reminder of his short, precarious time on earth, in combination with the humiliation and self-effacement he endured with Renee, something snapped, and, suddenly, gloriously, he was liberated. He felt keenly and intuitively that nothing mattered, and it was beautiful. He knew in his bones he didn’t have to… couldn’t… take things seriously. 

He abandoned himself to the delight of whatever exhilarating ride life took him on, and it sustained him for years. Where concern, worry and care had threaded through him previously, there was only brightness and light. The world was his.

He still felt delight, but it was tinged (and sometimes enhanced) with responsibilities he had taken on. Responsibilities that had not felt like encumbrances, but like things he could bear, and should bear, as a citizen of the world. He had responsibilities to his clients, to Mac, to Jane, to Phryne. He did not find them onerous, as he once might have. Now, they only felt natural. 

Unbidden, an image of Phryne, confessing that she had believed him to be shot earlier today, consumed him. He had been too eager to get her to help with the case then, and her sadness and fear hadn’t sunk in. But in the dark night, with the pounding rain and rhythmic _thwump_ of his windshield wipers, he felt her sadness keenly, also suddenly imagining if it had been he who believed her dead. He felt a thick grief, a heaviness at the thought, and was so lost in that sensation that he startled when he heard thunder crack.

He pulled over at the next side street to catch his breath. He had witnessed a murder less than 12 hours ago, he reminded himself. His desire for company was not unreasonable. His desire to see Phryne in particular was not unusual. He sat for a few more moments.

He put the car in gear, and headed north, toward her apartment.


	15. Chapter 15

Phryne slowly eased off of the bar stool. The last drink had not been such a great idea, she realized as she stood. But the warmth and forgetfulness she now felt, something that almost replicated lightness of heart, couldn't make her regret it. 

The rain had started to let up, and she thought it was as good an opportunity as any to begin the short walk back to her apartment. She nodded to Conrad, grateful that he hadn't commented any further on her mood, and opened the door, letting the crisp air wash over her and mingle with the numbness from the alcohol. She stood outside of the bar door and breathed deeply through her nose, filling her lungs completely.

She had thought he was dead, and he wasn't.

She took a few steps, rounding the corner and looked up ahead toward her building.

She held her set of keys in her coat pocket, individual keys laced through her knuckles as she'd instructed so many others to do, forefinger and thumb on her door key so that there would be no delay opening the door. She did not live in a particularly unsafe neighborhood, but she knew the necessity of alertness, vigilance, in any neighborhood, especially at night.

The door to her basement apartment was separated from the doors to the rest of the building, and so was not lit as well. She stopped abruptly when she saw a dark figure at her door, bending, trying to look in through her grated windows.

“Hey!” she shouted, her voice clear and penetrating, angry and almost other-worldly. 

She braced herself, ready to flee if the intruder would not retreat. 

The shocked figure rose and turned slowly. “Phryne? It's me.”

She exhaled abruptly, but the adrenaline coursing through her needed some kind of release, and she stamped her foot hard on the cement, her whole body crouching with the exaggerated movement, like a child throwing a temper tantrum. “Dammit, Robinson!” she managed. Neighborhood dogs started barking at the commotion.

She turned away from him to collect herself, running her hands over her face, smoothing her hair. Jack had the good sense to stay back. 

After a few moments, she turned back around, cool and reserved, and walked slowly toward her door. She sighed and shook her head. “You couldn't just call?” she asked dryly. Her keys were almost to the lock, and really quite steady, considering, when she looked at him and said, a little too loudly and a little too honestly, “I don't want to go home.” 

“Where do you want to go, Phryne?” he all but sputtered. 

“I want to walk. Let's walk to the water.”

He grinned. “Well then, to the beach.” Without further comment, they began walking east.

The rain had stopped, but there was still almost no one out, vehicles streaming only on the busiest streets. Wending through side streets, they similarly meandered through innocuous, easy conversation about Jane, about Phryne's orchids.

Despite the mixup about thinking he was a prowler, this evening Phryne was more relaxed than he'd ever seen her; but when they reached the lake she seemed even more peaceful, almost beatific. That taught, springy quality he'd always noticed about her vanished and she seemed pliable, youthful as she closed her eyes and revelled in the cold, fresh air.

“Do you ever feel like you're not done with the day? It can't end yet because it went too quickly or with too much to feel and the rest of you hasn't caught up with it yet? I turn out my light, but...”

She stopped; he gave her time to finish her thought, but when she didn't he joined her gaze out over the water. 

“The water, it scrubs your mind. Rinses away misdeeds.” she finally offered.

The mood was confessional, and he tread cautiously. “You always act with integrity. I can't imagine you've ever done things that...weren't what you thought was right.”

She looked a little hollowed out. She didn't answer.

“Do you have nightmares?” he asked gently.

She looked at him a little sharply, as though startled he would ask the question. He didn't look away or try to speak, but kept his expression open and neutral.

“Fewer.” She looked back across the water. “How did you know?”

He shrugged. “Some mannerisms. The rigorous exercize.”

She nodded. “Do you? Dream of the war?”

“Not often. It comes at strange times; sometimes overwhelms me a bit. But usually I'm conscious. Today, watching Ernesto… was rough.”

“I couldn't interpret your mood.” She didn't add _I worried for a second you had done it._

They stood and listened to the relative quiet for some time. 

He eventually turned to her: “Do you want an omelet? There's an all-night diner only a few blocks away.” She looked at her watch. Tomorrow would be a busy, tricky day. She was about to say 'no,' that she would need her wits about her and needed rest, but then she remembered her pretzel-meal from earlier and realized she still didn't want to go home. “Yeah, let's go.”

\---

The meal was pleasant and their banter continued in a playful manner, easing some of the swampiness that had engulfed her most of the day. On the walk back from the restaurant, she felt much better, but much sleepier. She yawned almost in tandem with a man under an overpass who, with a loud, exaggerated yawn, was settling in for the night. Phryne stopped abruptly.

“What is it?” Jack asked.

“Last fall there were half a dozen people who slept here. Now there's just the one.”

The man adjusted the corrugated cardboard beneath him and wiggled around in his dingy sleeping bag. The bridge, which was broad and low enough to keep out the elements, was well-situated, away from heavy traffic. The early spring nights were still very frigid, and this was a choice spot.

“I'm guessing not _all_ of the others are riding the El tonight or huddled in public elevators,” she whispered. 

Phryne walked up and gently attempted to get the man’s attention. He wore several layers of coats, all of which had turned to approximately the same shade of dirt. He looked to be in his late 60s and his head periodically jerked to the right. He’d shaven sometime in the past few weeks, which meant he likely had had at least one night in a shelter somewhat recently. Phryne lowered her head and neck in a calming, submissive position and put up an open hand as a greeting. “Hi,” she said, not too loudly. The man grumbled in response and looked away, covering his chest with his arms and sleeping bag.

“Where is everyone?”

“Eh?”

“There used to be a lot more people sleeping here. Where have they all gone?”

“That’s bad news.” He rolled over, adjusting his blanket and facing the cement wall away from the street.

Jack exchanged a look with Phryne. “What do you mean?” he asked, keeping his voice even and unintimidating. “How is it bad news? Are they somewhere else?”

They heard him snicker and scoff simultaneously, then heard him mutter “Somewhere better, maybe. Ya hope.”

They weren't sure how to encourage him, but it was obvious he knew more than he was saying.

“We can help. We want to help.” Her sincerity must have come through, because the simple words were enough to encourage the man to turn his head and at least look at them.

“Yeah, it was some lady who wanted to help before.” He sat up cautiously. He seemed uneasy to talk about it, but glad to have some kind, any kind, of human connection.

“A woman came down here to help?”

“It’s what she said, ‘wanted to help.’ Said her dad had lived on the streets and she knew that people frowned on homeless people buying booze with their change, but sometimes wine or whiskey was the only thing that kept you warm. An apple won’t keep you warm. So she handed out a couple bottles.”

“She handed out bottles. And then what?”

“Then what? An ambulance without sirens came by the next morning and collected them, is what.”

“Can you describe the woman?”

“She was white. Dark hair. Pretty lady.” 

“Did you drink from the bottles she passed out?”

“I got here late, saw the crowd and mostly just heard what had happened. She was leaving. Someone gave me a last little swig. It was just a bottle of Jack Daniel's, nothing special, but it felt like nothing else...had only that tiny bit and pretty quickly I was swaying, drunk-like but more nightmarish, like a bad trip. I crawled into my bed, but I got really hot, sweating, and couldn’t get comfortable, so I started walking. I don’t think the others would have been able to walk with the amount they’d had.”

“Then you came back?”

“I finally started to get cold, my fingers weren't moving. I was surprised because I still didn't feel that cold. So I settled down to sleep somewhere else with my blanket. I came back in the morning to get some more of my stuff, and that’s when I saw the ambulance.”

“And they were all…”

“I don’t know. But it got very cold that night.” Tears filled his eyes suddenly. “I’m guessing they froze. I haven’t seen them since.”

“And who do you think she was?”

He was weeping now. “I have no idea.”

They crouched down and sat with him for a few minutes. “Can you think of anything else?” Phryne asked eventually, gently.

“There was a special event happening that week. I remember there were a lot of trucks. They were setting up for something big, city flags and banners all over the place. Big planters with winter flowers and painted sticks.”

She looked over to Jack.

“Can I speak to you again sometime? I live not too far.”

He looked at her a little sideways, then nodded briefly. 

“I'm Phryne. What's your name?”

“Mike,” he mumbled.

“Thank you, Mike. Here's my card if you need to get in contact with me, or if you think of anything else.”

\--

Jack and Phryne continued down the street, lost in thought. 

“Do you think your husband might be able to give us some details about city events for the last few months? Maybe we can figure out what event he was talking about.”

“My ex-husband--”

“Ah. Ex-husband--”

“--maybe could help.” 

They both fidgeted a little. “Actually, a better contact would be his girlfriend, Sydney Fletcher. She does events planning for the city. I can contact her tomorrow.”

“If it's awkward, I can speak with her.”

“It's not...well, it's not _that_ awkward. But I can't speak to her until the afternoon, maybe not until the next day. I'm going to the County Jail tomorrow morning to speak with Manuel Garcia, Ernesto's cousin.”

“How did you convince Officer Davidson to permit… ?” he trailed off, watching her slightly embarrassed expression. So… she hadn't gotten the go-ahead from the lead investigator in Ernesto's murder. “You are a terrible influence,” she said quietly, shaking her head.

He raised his eyebrows at her, all innocence.

“If you'd like to try and catch Sydney yourself in the morning, that's fine,” she continued, ignoring his bait, as they made their way to her building. “I'll send her an email tonight and tell her you'll be by.” 

They stood at her apartment door, both a little uncertain how to end the night. Eventually she took her key out and gave him a short nod. “Well, goodnight,” she said decisively. “Goodnight,” he responded. 

He turned to leave, and then turned back, smiling.

“Phryne, if it makes you feel any better, your influence is… equally ruinous.”

Her heart sped up a bit. “Oh? How?”

He was going to say something else, she saw it. He looked open, maybe even vulnerable.

But in an instant he reconsidered, and schooled his features. “Well, for one, I drove the speed limit all the way here,” he grinned.

She imagined it was meant to look rakish; but in the starlight and stillness, in her over-tired state, in her glimpse of his hesitance, in the grief they had shared with the homeless man… it came off as something else. He made his way back to his car, and her gaze followed him as he drove off.

She breathed a barely audible curse, and gave in. She fell in love with Jack Robinson.


	16. Chapter 16

Jack sat in his car in the parking garage near the city building, fingers pressed to his forehead, listening to the voicemail that came through during his drive.

“Jack, honey, it's Mom. Just wanted to remind you about the gala fundraiser for the theater. Do you have your costume? The board, the whole _theater_ , is so excited you'll be coming, honey, you lend such cachet. Do you think Jenny would come? She'd be such a darling flapper! Anyway, just wanted to remind you and thank you so much for agreeing to come. I'm so excited about this, honey, this was not an easy board to join, and I'm just... well, you know. Excited. Anyway, call me if you need help finding a costume, OK? Love you! Bye!”

Jack rubbed his forehead and studied the phone before he stood from the car and put the phone in his pocket.

–-

“Hi. I'm looking for Sydney Fletcher?” he addressed the bored-looking woman at the reception desk. She gave a slow look up from her typing and opened a directory.

“Appointment?”

“No. Well, maybe. She might have gotten an email letting her know I'm coming.”

“Mmmmhmm,” the woman looked up at him as she dialed. “Your name?”

“Jack Robinson.”

The receptionist spoke briefly on the phone to someone who was not Sydney, he could tell by the laughing banter, but probably another assistant. She hung up.

“She's not in her office.”

“OK. Do you think--”

“Nope.”

The woman went back to typing.

Jack wasn't sure how to proceed. It was still early, around 9:30, so Phryne was likely still at the jail. He turned around, and headed to the main entrance when he heard a couple laughing, the woman's hand around the elbow of the man.

“Robert...” she laughed as a kind of playful admonishment, a tone Jack was all too familiar with.

The odds were slim, but he thought fortune might be on his side. It often was.

“Excuse me,” Jack began, his tone smooth, his body language open, “are you Sydney Fletcher?”

“Yes, I'm Sydney.” She was clearly taken aback but a little charmed. She looked at Robert, sharing a small smile of wonder, but was more amused than defensive, unlike Robert, who bristled immediately. Sydney was, by any person's measure, beautiful. Her hair and eyes were dark like Phryne's, but Sydney was decidedly more aware of her attractiveness, and more eager to use it. She sparkled with excitement, and seemed at ease with the world and her (not insignificant) place in it. She reminded Jack of girls he had gone to school with.

“I'm here for some information that might be relevant to an investigation. Perhaps you can help me?”

“Do you have some kind of warrant?” Robert postured a bit, not quite stepping in front of Sydney, but that was the feeling.

Jack's attention was drawn to Robert. He'd never met him before, and Phryne's discussions about him had been terse. She never spoke unkindly of him, which didn't surprise Jack, as, (though he expected she would have denied it) Phryne was generally optimistic of people's motives and intentions. Robert had a very earnest look, attractive but somehow not as worldly as Phryne. Jack sensed Robert's protective attitude toward Sydney. Was he as solicitous of Phryne's comfort, Jack wondered? He was, in fact, surprised at how _much_ Robert piqued his interest—what had Phryne seen that kept her with him for nearly 20 years? What did she know that made her so certain he has no knowledge of what might be going on? 

Sydney spoke up.

“It's okay Robert, Phryne sent me a message that he'd be by.” Watching Robert's minuscule, uncomfortable shift at the thought of his ex-wife and girlfriend being in contact gave Jack some small satisfaction. “You're a friend of hers, aren't you?” she continued.

“Is that how she put it?” Jack asked, starting to enjoy the delicate, diplomatic maneuvering this conversation might require. One thing he had learned in prep school, and did well, was parry. Sydney smiled at him, taking his measure, then turned to Robert. “It's nothing, Robert, just some questions about some events from last winter. Nothing official. I'll just walk with him to my office, and, Robert, I'll catch up with you at lunch?” Robert smiled, briefly squeezing her hand. “Sure,” he said, before nodding his farewells and walking down the hall to his own office.

As they walked, they chatted easily, and Jack couldn't help but notice that Phryne was altogether a different type of person from Sydney. Sydney was brightly extroverted, mirrored in her wardrobe, her hairstyle. Somehow even her dress shoes snapped and clicked down the polished granite hallway more ostentatiously than Phryne's would have.

“So, a private investigator...rather risky line of work, isn't it? Or is that just in mystery novels?” Her tone was unmistakably flirtatious. Jack smiled at her, meeting her eyes, thought to what end he wasn't sure. Naturally flirting back, perhaps, an innate response? 

“No riskier than many things in life. Driving on 290, for example.” 

She exhaled in exasperation. “I really don't think the construction will end. Or if it's even meant to end. And I feel like a traitor to my employers for saying so, but _honestly_.” She tilted her head charmingly as they slipped past her office door. “So, Mr. Robinson, how can I help you?”

He wished he'd known what all that Phryne had told her. He had intended to tell Sydney some details, without prevaricating. In general, the truth (or pieces of it, anyway) was easiest-- remembering lies you've told is a chore. However, Jack was a little on guard with Sydney, even if he was uncertain why. Since he trusted his intuition, he proceeded with caution.

“It's a small lead, possibly some misdirection, I'm not sure yet,” he began, sitting in the chair Sydney gestured to. “I found some upcoming city events online, but couldn't find a list of past events; just wondering if there was some sort of record or calendar I could check for the past few months?”

“Well, I can't of course show you my personal calendar, you understand,” she smiled. “Perhaps it could help if I know a little more about why you are looking?”

“I'm afraid I can't disclose my client or his particular circumstances. It's...delicate. The city events are peripheral, so if you don't think you can help--” Jack started to stand. 

“I can tell you off the top of my head that the largest events were an announcement about an education funding initiative, and a holiday party. The smaller events, I couldn't really say. We average several in a week.” She smiled, though a little tightly. “Is that any help, Mr. Robinson?” 

“It is. Thank you for your time, Ms. Fletcher.” He reached his hand out to shake hers and took his leave, making his way back to the garage. 

This morning he had set Dot up to look through the newspapers for the last few months, though only the online editions; unsure how to get ahold of back issues of hard copies, which usually had more content and photos of city events, he considered with an inward groan that he might have to join Dot for an afternoon in the reference section of the Harold Washington Library.

He wanted to catch up with Phryne, maybe at her office. Something felt off, and he wanted to check in with her. Certainly her interview with Manuel wouldn't take all day, though he knew it was more likely the difficulty and uncertainty in arranging a discussion with an inmate that was the problem. Some paperwork or unexpected event can often cause delays. Still, she would probably make it back to her office for a late lunch. He remembered a Thai place she liked, and figured he would bring lunch to her office and wait for her. 

As he situated himself in his car, pulling his seatbelt across his shoulder, he thought more of how different Sydney and Phryne are. Phryne was more aloof, more sensitive. Certainly more serious and less flirtatious. She is also more private; not as though she is hiding something, not in an ungenerous way-- more as though she has something precious that she likes to enjoy in peace. Something compelling certainly; something that someone would be lucky to share. 

He sat in his car, key in hand, a little stunned. He felt a visceral pang, some shift. 

Perhaps he should not go to her office, after all. Perhaps it would be better to wait. Suddenly, an afternoon in the library sounded rather appealing.


	17. Chapter 17

The wait to see an inmate was longer than normal. Phryne tapped her fingers and bobbed her foot over her crossed legs, surprised at how anxious she was.

When Manuel finally emerged into the interview room, Phryne hid her surprise poorly. His file said he was 27, but he looked closer to a very battered 40. His eyes held no glimmer of anything one expects to see in youth. He did not look sad—he was too vacant to look sad. He looked erased.

She stood and nodded her head in leu of the handshake she was not allowed to offer him. 

“Hello, I'm Officer Fisher. I'm here with some questions about a case I'm working on.”

He looked a little puzzled, but nodded.

“Have you heard from anyone in your family?” 

“What do you mean?”

She paused and felt the weight of her next statement. She hated this part.

“Your cousin Ernesto was murdered yesterday.”

The eerie absence in his eyes remained, but he looked like he'd just had the wind knocked out of him; he didn't move for several seconds. Finally, he closed his eyes against a sheen of tears and muttered something in Spanish, a prayer, Phryne thought, then looked at the floor. “I'm sorry, Mr. Garcia,” she said, inadequately.

“I was a kid when he went to jail,” he began, his voice unsteady. “He helped my mother.” 

He couldn't continue, looking away and wiping his eyes.

“Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to harm him?” Phryne tried gently. He gave a silent shake of his head.

“He got out in 2008, right?” she tried again.

“Yeah. And I got in in 2014. In the six years we were out at the same time, I can't think of anyone. But I don't know who he's been around in the last couple of years.”

She allowed a longer pause.

“I know about the letter to Jack Robinson, asking him to get in contact with Ernesto.” She spoke quietly and without aggression.

Manuel looked up at her meaningfully. “Do you think _he_ \--”

“No, he was a witness. He didn't kill him. But there must be people associated with the offer you sent to Mr. Robinson. Who gave you the information? You never served time with Murdoch Foyle.”

“Yeah, I made that up.”

“Why?”

“Someone asked me to.”

“Who?”

Silence.

“Manuel, it’s possible Ernesto's death was related to the information this man gave you. It's the only lead we have right now on finding his killer. Anything you tell me could be useful.”

He began with extreme reluctance. “I didn’t speak to the man directly,” he started, swallowing slowly. “He had a go-between, this older guy who wore an ear piece; they could both hear the conversation and respond, then the old guy would repeat to me what the guy on the other end was saying. He said he had worked with Ernesto in 2008, and had helped him get an earlier release.”

“How did he manage that?”

“He said he had connections, and...”

He was clearly feeling uncomfortable, uncertain how much he should reveal. Phryne tried not to look too eager, looking down and making slow, lazy notes in her notebook.

“He said he needed Ernesto. He said he needed him for some kind of community service.”

“Did he say what kind?”

“No. But he said he could use me for the same job, that he needed my contacts, and that he knew a way for me to get easy money after my release next month. That was why he told me about the Robinsons-- that they were a very rich family and they wanted information he had. He said it was a 'good faith' offer, to show me he was serious about helping me if I was willing to help him.”

“And how did he get the information about the Robinsons?”

“He didn't say.”

“What did this man with the ear piece look like?”

“Just like every other old, middle-class white guy.”

Phryne wrote down some notes. Her heart began beating wildly as she tried to ask the next question.

“And what information did he give you about the Robinsons?”

“It was about a little girl taken in the 80s.”

“Yes? What did he say?”

Manuel looked up at her. “I don't have job prospects when I get out, you know that, right? There is nothing I can do except low-paying odd jobs for my mom's friends. I'm going to be sitting in her basement, trying to live off of her social security check and stay out of trouble.”

She nodded slowly, acknowledging his point, as she gave some consideration to her next thought. “Do you think making a family that has suffered a tragedy pay for information is going to make a good start on the outside?”

Manuel's eyes finally softened.

–

Phryne returned to her office, vaguely hoping to see Jack there and vaguely hoping not to. She sat down at her desk, aware that some insights in to the cases were coming—she could feel the tingling, knew the sensation pricking the back of her neck. She paced a little in her office, rubbing her lip with her forefinger. Too wound up to really desire a lunch, she finally sat down and opened some files, opened her email, and went through everything again, slowly. 

At about 7:00, she looked up and saw that it was dark out. She stretched her back and stood, slowly, adjusting her suit. She'd really been hunched over the computer far too long. As she straighted, gently articulating the vertebra in her neck, she stopped abruptly. 

She whipped around, pulling Janey's file from a cabinet, and found precisely what she had been reaching for blindly and in vain all afternoon. “Jack,” she breathed, unsure why that was what came out, and scooped everything up, putting it in her satchel. She flung on her coat and headed to Jack's house.

\--

As Phryne rang the bell, she still didn't have a clear idea as to what she was going to say or what next steps they should take. Maybe it was premature to share all of the information Manuel had given her. In her excitement she had rushed over here, but she now felt that it was a mistake. She had nothing solid, and it would just make him fret at his inability to do anything immediately, perhaps even encourage him to do something reckless again. She decided she would follow up with Jack tomorrow, after she had received some requested information; by then she would have a clearer picture of next steps. If she hadn't already rung, she would have turned to leave, but as it was, Dot opened the door to her.

“Hi Officer Fisher,” Dot began, taking Phryne's attention away from her worrying, and walking her toward the dining area of the open kitchen. “I've just been making some notes for you; we were at the library this afternoon and got a few good leads, I think.”

“What did Manuel say?” Jack asked, without preamble, as he stood from the dining chair, though he did smile briefly in greeting. Jane was dealing cards between herself and Jack, and paused to wave at Phryne, who smiled and waved back. Phryne sat at the table next to Jane, across from Jack.

“He said there was an old white guy who came to talk to him, to ask him about helping with some kind of community service; horribly shady. He said the man wore an ear piece and communicated with a third party during their discussion, presumably the orchestrator of all of this and the one who actually knew Foyle. Apparently, this same man had helped Ernesto get out of jail early, in 2008—his original sentence wouldn't have ended for another couple years.”

Jack hummed and furrowed his brow.

“I've requested all of the visitor logs for Ernesto, Manuel, and Foyle and will be going through those as soon as I get them. Not all of them are computerized, and a second set of eyes would be very useful, if you'd like to help.” Good; something administrative, tedious and actually very useful to keep his mind and energy occupied. She relaxed after that bit of inspiration. 

“Yeah, sure. Anything else?” 

Jack and Jane played their round, a modified Euchre game.

“That was the strongest lead I got from Manuel,” she said, slightly regretting her small lie.

Jack nodded, and straightened the cards that he and Jane had just played. 

“Deal you in?”

“I should go, I have to grab dinner...”

“We haven't eaten yet either. Benedykta is making far too much of something delicious, I'm sure.” His tone sounded sincere enough, but his expression had her truly puzzled. He looked down and then away, seemingly distracted. Something was off. “So?” he smiled at her finally, waiting for her answer.

“OK,” she responded, still trying to figure out his mish-mash of an invitation. “Yeah, thanks,” she confirmed, taking off her suit coat and putting it with her overcoat and satchel. He nodded and stood, walking to tell Benedykta about the extra dinner guest. As he walked back to the table, he addressed Dot, who was dutifully marking her notes. 

“Dot, would you like to join us? You can be Phryne's partner.” Dot looked up. “Sure,” she smiled, and followed him back to the dining table.

“We won't play all the way to ten; maybe just to four?” He looked at Jane, who smiled broadly. Phryne realized suddenly that he was probably teaching her table talk, and she chuckled. 

“What's funny about playing to four?” Jack asked her, brow raised. 

“Nothing, Jack; nothing at all.” 

Curious to see the signs for cheating they'd devised, she grinned at him, and Jack began shuffling. Phryne watched as he ran the edge of the cards along the thumb of one hand to cut the deck in half, then expertly maneuvered them into a smooth, integrated shuffle. He did it again, and this time her breath nearly caught. It was the first time she had paid much attention to his hands. It was also the first time she allowed herself to imagine what those hands might be capable of. Her heart sped up as he dealt five cards to each of the players, and she was completely lost in reverie when she heard him rumble next to her, “Phryne, your call.” She looked at her completely black hand and passed on the jack of hearts.

“Was Sydney any help?” Phryne purposefully kept her voice completely even, and saw Jack turn toward her to see if he could infer any information from her tone. She remained, she believed, unreadable.

“Not as such,” he responded.

“No?”

“I got the impression that she was trying to give me as little information as possible without trying to seem unhelpful.”

“And is that so atypical in politics?”

Jack shrugged. “I guess you'd know better than I would.” He winced a little, perhaps wishing he'd been more delicate than to reference her life with her ex-husband and former in-laws. “She said the two biggest events were an announcement about an alternative education funding initiative and the holiday party,” he continued, sounding friendlier. “Were you at either of those this winter?”

“Yes, both actually.”

They played out the first hand, which Jack and Jane easily won two points on, and Jack passed the deck to Phryne to shuffle and deal. She gave the cards a very whimpy mix in her hand, then spread them out on the table, face down, as though in a big “go fish” pile, and began to sweep them around to shuffle them. “You shuffle like a kid,” Jack sniggered at her. She gave him a look of mock indignation. “Yes, well, my hands aren't as… large as yours.” Oh lord, she was starting to blush, she could feel it coming. “I wouldn't think that should make a difference,” he said, gathering the cards and repeating his shuffle slowly, so she could see the movement better. He was trying to help her, she knew, but she was getting even more flustered watching his hands move in slow motion. Nearly beside herself, all but squirming in her seat, she could have kissed Benedykta when she walked in, interrupting to announce “Dinner's ready.” 

This was getting complicated.


	18. Chapter 18

Phryne sat on a stool in the costume shop of the theater berating herself. She had a murder investigation to work on, many open items on her to-do list, and here she was, waiting for a costume designer to pull out a dress.

She and Jack had been over the visitor records for Foyle, Ernesto and Manuel too many times to count over the last weeks, and couldn't find any connection; though they knew it was possible, probably likely, that the mystery man with the ear-piece who visited Manuel had used a psuedonym, they still hoped against hope that they could come up with something; if not a name, then a pattern. But they'd been left frustrated.

She was also starting to wonder if it was a mistake withholding from Jack the pieces of information Manuel had finally revealed to her in the interview. He had told her that there was a place “out near Iowa” that Foyle had taken the girls to, and he was given the name “Patricia Lane.” Phryne searched for state records both in Illinois and Iowa for anyone named Patricia Lane, and found half a dozen, all but one of whom she had interviewed in the last weeks, and each time she came up with nothing. She was at wit's end trying to figure out the significance of the name—someone who knew Foyle?-- and searching archives for deceased Patricias' records, trying to figure out if it was perhaps a maiden name and that it was changed, anything that might keep the lead relevant and make her not regret keeping it from Jack. The final Patricia was expected to return from South America next week, and she hoped against hope that she could provide some kind, any kind, of information.

It had all started off so promising—that evening after talking with Manuel she had remembered from Janey's file that the only lead the police had after her disappearance was a possible sighting of a man who fit Foyle's description, seen with a girl out in the far-west suburb of Geneva—close enough to Iowa for a Chicagoan. He aroused suspicion when he stopped at a gas station and the girl was seen in the vehicle, apparently passed out. Another customer at the gas station called the police from inside the gas station, feeling that something was off; she claimed that the girl looked more than just asleep, that no one would stay in that crumpled-up position asleep. She gave the police a description of the car, but nothing came of the lead.

Now, over 30 years later, Phryne was trying to piece together what the two snippets of information from Manuel might mean; a place near Iowa, and a Patricia Lane.

Phryne absently stroked her braid. And then there was Jack. He'd been unusually distant the last few weeks. Her own guilt at not mentioning the leads on Janey kept her from popping by his house, but she was also surprised to see so little of him at the police station. And when she did see him, he was changed, almost formal with her. She could put it down to his being distracted about this very personal case, as well as his shock from watching Ernesto's murder, but she really suspected that it was something else. She suspected that he'd noticed her attraction to him and was feeling awkward about it. Given his sudden and otherwise inexplicable reluctance to flirt with her, even visit her, she felt rather certain that her feelings were not reciprocated. Why it should bother her, she reminded herself, she didn't know. She could acknowledge her feelings, but still, he was not a passion she intended to pursue. And yet, and yet. She sighed.

She roused herself from her fretting when the costume designer gasped “Oh, this one, for sure.” She held up a 20s-style, green, shimmery dress. “Are you sure the theater won't mind?” Phryne asked, eyeing the admittedly very beautiful dress. “No; we won't be doing another period piece for a while. Also, I made this one, I'm very proud of it. I'd love to see it worn again! And I know you'll return it. I trust any friend of Conrad's.” She smiled at Phryne, and Phryne suddenly wondered what implications Conrad had made about him and her. Were they a couple to his friends?

Months ago he had mentioned a benefit for one of the theaters he designs sets for, and asked Phryne if she'd accompany him. “They're always fun,” he'd said, “and I'd love to see that beautiful smile of yours.” Fun or not, she was now deeply regretting accepting the invitation. Gorgeous dress or not, she felt in no mood to socialize.

Then she brought out the stole.

It seemed enormous; feathery, slinky…Phryne was always well put together, she'd attended any number of balls and galas for Robert's work at the mayor's office or on her father-in-law's behalf, and was always noted for looking smart-- someone might have even said “stunning” once-- but this was something truly elegant. This was something she would never imagine wearing in her wildest dreams, yet she felt a definite, inexplicable draw, and her eyes widened. 

Maybe she could imagine it.


	19. Chapter 19

The room was buzzing with the feeling and sounds of a party going very well. Under ordinary circumstances, the revelry and delight that surrounded him would be precisely Jack's element, and he did his best to make it so tonight, taking several turns around the dance floor, flirting, laughing boisterously at jokes made funnier by a little bit of alcohol. He'd also over-bid on a few paintings at the silent auction tables that lined the periphery of the stunning, vintage ballroom, so at least he'd go home with some artwork he liked. But, try as he might, tonight his thoughts were elsewhere. He stood, sipping a gin and tonic, trying very hard not to be wistful. 

Tabitha, his date, looked marvelous, decked out in a beaded dress that clicked and clacked as she moved. She was giggling at his side, pointing out some jewelry at another one of the auction tables and whispered something in his ear that he only partially caught, something about the jewelry. She walked away with an alluring sashay, heading to the mentioned table and the man standing next to it. He eyed her retreating figure appreciatively, wondering what the evening might hold. 

The ballroom was part of an original 1920s building, the art-nouveau architecture and finishes making it a favorite in the city; and the transformation with the decorations, live music and costumes was enchanting. His mother, who had been so nervous about the evening, was finally relaxing a bit, delighted that her efforts had paid off. He smiled, watching her flit from person to person, happy she was enjoying herself.

But, while they'd only been here a couple hours, the night was beginning to wear on him, and Jack was feeling restless; he wondered if his date would like to leave as well. He looked over to see her chatting with another guest. Tabitha was good at chatter. Jack looked into his glass, finished off the last bit of his drink, checked his watch, and made to put his drink on the bar, when the sound of a familiar, resonant laugh drifted near him, and he froze. He looked around abruptly, feeling excited, puzzled and nervous. 

The last time Phryne was at his house, several weeks ago now, he'd nearly asked her to come with him here tonight. He had walked her to the door, intending to ask, but somehow when the time came, it felt too much like high school--he felt too awkward, too invested in her saying 'yes.' Perhaps if it weren't a costume party, he told himself, or if it weren't his mother's party. 

But he'd been distancing himself from her since then, and he knew it. As they'd played cards and enjoyed each other's company at dinner that evening, he had wondered, briefly, if a romantic relationship could be worth the difficulties and challenges he knew he would come up against. But after his aborted attempt at asking her to be his date, and after the dizzy, clenching feeling he got when he saw her the next time, he felt it was wisest for him to back away. The fact that he saw his own feelings reflected in her face didn't sway him, but strengthened his resolve. He emphatically didn't like the happy-sad, swampy feeling that overtook him when he thought of her or saw her. It felt too much like being at someone's mercy; it felt like losing control. 

As he looked around, he heard her again, her laugh, but still did not see her. He turned to find Tabitha with no plan in mind exactly, but he knew he would feel better, safer somehow, with his date nearby. She was no longer at the jewelry table, but as he scanned the ballroom, saw she was dancing with the man she had been talking to. As he watched Tabitha, trying to make eye contact, his gaze finally landed on Phryne, a vision in shimmery green, with a beautiful, wide smile on her face.

His breath caught. Who was making her smile so effortlessly? A surge of jealousy crept up on him, a sensation he'd nearly forgotten and one which he now refused, purposefully turning away from the dancing couple. He inhaled deeply and walked, finally managing to catch Tabitha's attention, but she lifted her index finger and asked wordlessly if he didn't mind if she danced another song with her current partner. He shrugged and gestured, 'of course I don't mind,' but it was a struggle. He made his way to a remote corner, hands in his pockets, and before he knew it, was looking for Phryne again. He finally caught sight of her, dancing with a man he knew he'd seen before, but couldn't place immediately. The police station?...no, someone outside of work...from her neighborhood? Then he remembered the bar she'd taken him to and the bartender she'd seemed so comfortable with. Realization dawned; so, she was dating him, it seemed. Maybe he'd misread her feelings toward him after all. That would make things much easier, he half-convinced himself.

The song ended and Phryne's date spoke in her ear; she nodded and he moved to go talk to some people, while she broke away to go to the bar in Jack's direction. He was torn between exposing himself and moving unseen, but his decision was made for him as she caught sight of him. Her first reaction upon seeing him was a very open, excited wave, but it was as if her thinking caught up with her, and she realized it was not how she really wanted to greet him, though by this point she was committed. He composed himself with his practiced, nearly effortless social facade and approached her.

They spoke at the same time, versions of the same thing: “I didn't recognize--” “You look so different--” “If I'd have known--.” They smiled at their garbled conversation and paused to see who would speak first.

“Are you associated with the theater?” he spoke, a little surprised by his serious tone, which she also picked up on.

“Uh, no. My friend Conrad,” she gestured to him across the room, “designs and helps build some of the sets.”

He looked over at him, and nodded his understanding, trying to think of a follow up question. Phryne was looking over at Conrad as well and Jack tried to discern her look as she watched him entertaining some kids. 

The music began again, this time with a more sedate song. Phryne turned to Jack, tilting her head: “Would you like to dance?”

He swallowed. _Yes...No...Yes, more than anything...No._

“Do you think you could keep up?” he tried, only barely able to make it sound playful.

“Well, I've had two glasses of champagne and am thoroughly charmed by the night and the music, so if not now, probably never.” She shrugged and smiled at him, in a far better mood and more alluringly confident than he had ever seen her.

“And your date?” 

She raised an eyebrow. “You care what my date thinks?” 

He looked over at Conrad again, apparently teaching the kids a magic trick, clearly in his element. No, he didn't care what her date thought, but he wanted to know what she thought about her date. “Sweet of you to wonder, but it won't offend him,” she followed up, as she stepped onto the dance floor and held out her hand for him to join her.

He wished he had some business to distract him or delay his progress toward her-- a drink, a cigarette, something to debonairly fidget with. But he had only himself-- himself and his by-now nearly overwhelming desire for her. He was naked. 

She beckoned him with kind, sweet eyes and a petite hand. He came to her with a trepidation that he masked with an over-straight back and a chin lifted a little too high, a haughty look, striving for dignity in his nakedness. 

But when she put her hand on his shoulder, and her other hand in his hand, everything around him stopped. He couldn't even hear the band anymore. As his free hand finally slid to her hip, then around to her low back, he had no more thoughts of dignity, no thought of ego, or mercy or control; there was no thought. There was only being; simple, open, happy being.

His face felt warm as he allowed himself to finally look at her and take her in. Her hair was pinned in a faux bob, and topped with a feathered headband. She avoided the thick eyeliner that most of the women here wore, in favor of a simple, bright red smear of lipstick, which set off her easy smile and charmingly even teeth. The beautiful filigree of her dangling earring led his gaze to the pulse point in her neck. He closed his eyes, imagining teasing it with his tongue.

“You look well,” he said, immediately regretting it. What century was this? 

She didn't seem offended, but amused, her eyes crinkling as she looked up at him. She seemed possessed somehow, or inspired, inhabiting not only the garb, but the devil-may-care attitude of a flapper. He could practically picture a thin cigarette and holder defiantly, nonchalantly dangling from her mouth.

“Thank you, Mr. Robinson, as do you,” she responded in mock seriousness, adding somewhat devilishly “Stodgy really suits you, Jack.”

It was true that he was dressed far more sedately than the other men at the party. Anything related to the Roaring 20s in Chicago usually includes gangsters, and there were plenty of Al Capones and John Dillingers in the crowd tonight. Anticipating this, and the pinstriped Zoot suits that go with it, Jack had selected an earth-toned three-piece suit; it was well cut and handsome, but far less striking than his normal dress. With his hair conservatively combed and flattened with gel, even his mother had done a double take, not quite recognizing him at first.

Her 'stodgy' comment earned her an abrupt, deftly-handled dip, his arm firmly at her back. She laughed delightedly and threw her head back into the dip, causing a few glances from around the dance floor. He smiled at her, admiring her upside-down upturned chin, her exposed neck, her glee; and somehow, the tense feeling in his chest-- the clenching, protective muscle, built and strengthened by life-experiences, and which so expertly girded his heart-- began to ease and loosen.

The dance floor was becoming more crowded as people were lured by the slow, seductive music, and she was inching closer and closer toward him to avoid the crush. Rather than attempt actual dancing, eventually they joined the rest of the dancers in the middle-school sway, both his hands on her hips, both her hands on his shoulders. They seemed aware of the shift in intimacy and mood as they pressed closer to each other. She looked up at him and gave him a slow, tentative smile. “And what brings you here tonight, Jack?” 

He smiled, curious what her reaction might be. “My mother,” he said simply.

“Aha. A theater lover?”

“No, I don't think so, not per se. I think one of her friends joined the board of a theater and she wanted to keep up, or thought it would be fun. That's my impression, anyway.”

“So, she's here tonight?” Phryne looked around, trying to see if she could figure out which woman Jack Robinson could possibly be related to.

“No,” he said, smiling and turning her so that she was facing the opposite direction, away from his mother.

“Liar,” she said fondly, her eyes sweeping over his face and the tip of her tongue just visible between her teeth. 

Jack was too charmed by her to care about her half-jab, but still wished to change the subject away from his mother.

“What about your parents? Are they theater lovers?”

“In the abstract, I suppose, though they didn't attend much when I was growing up. Now they've moved to the western suburbs to be near their grandchildren.” 

A flicker of something passed over her face, but she continued, her suddenly-brighter tone sounding a little forced. “After being out there a few years, they can't stand driving or looking for parking in the city anymore, so they tend to stick to that large theater in the suburbs…what's it called? With the conference center-- Drury Lane, that's it. I think they...”

Phryne froze in his arms, her dancing and conversation forgotten. Jack was startled by her response and tried to assess what might have happened to her, if perhaps she was hurt, or had just seen something upsetting; she looked horrified, like she might be sick, but she wasn't responding to his questions. She only murmured something that sounded like “Patricia.” 

“Phryne?” he repeated several times, unable to get her attention.

“It's a street,” she said hoarsely, finally making eye contact.

“Drury Lane? What's a street, Phryne?”

“I need to talk to you,” she whispered.


	20. Chapter 20

On the way to her office, she spoke plainly and unapologetically. 

“Manuel told me he was given the woman's name Patricia Lane in relation to Janey's disappearance. I've spoken with all of the Patricia Lanes who have lived in the tri-state area since the 1980s. Tonight I realized he might have just been given “Patricia Lane,” and that he assumed it was a name, when it was a street.” 

Jack absorbed the information without any noticeable reaction. While she had omitted the exact chronology of receiving the information and her motives for withholding it, she was not prevaricating; she also didn't have the time or energy to dwell on Jack's feelings if he _had_ been upset with her for withholding the information. The homicide rate in Chicago was at its highest in 20 years, and Phryne could barely keep all of her cases straight. In addition to her own case load, she was still working with (and occasionally against) Officer Davidson to figure out the Ernesto Garcia murder. She had too many pieces of too many puzzles to sort easily, and while she might, a few months ago, have relied more heavily on Jack to help her keep the pieces straight, the truth was, he simply hadn't been around. 

And now, the puzzle pieces in the case that had possibly distracted her the most were falling into place; the energy and purpose she felt couldn't be derailed, even by a miffed Jack Robinson.

In her office they located several Patricia Lanes, one of which was in the far west of the state, directly west of Geneva, the suburb where someone matching Foyle's description was spotted with a girl collapsed in the back of his car at a gas station.

“I think this one is our best bet,” she said, pointing to the map.

“Why?” he asked.

“Manuel also mentioned something about it being out near Iowa.”

“What else did he tell you?” He apparently could no longer keep the exasperation out of his voice. She looked up at him, trying not to be defensive. She simply avoided his question. “I have a gym bag. Let me change, and we can start out tonight. There are bound to be hotels nearby, so we can begin looking first thing in the morning. Do you want to go home and pack a bag?”

“No, I'm fine. Go ahead and change.” 

__

In the end, it was an easier search than either would have imagined. 

Patricia Lane was a short cul-de-sac in a 1980s housing development in Carroll County. At the end of the cul-de-sac, a garden shed had an oddly shaped, unexplained knoll next to it on an otherwise completely flat property. The home was currently empty, so they spoke with the real estate agency where it was listed for sale, as well as the local police. All parties were cooperative, and by the end of the afternoon, an excavation crew pulled up the remains of Janey Robinson and three other girls.

Phryne watched Jack closely. She knew she couldn't ease his grief in any meaningful way; it had to be something within him that mended. But she knew she could be present for him, and that she could let him know that she was. She gave him time by the edge of the excavation site where he stood, pressing his thumb and forefinger to his eyes as though to stem the flow of tears. She simply walked up next to him and squeezed his free hand, not relinquishing it.

__

The evening wore on as details were arranged with the local police and sheriff's department. The investigations were reopened, plans were made for examinations, and contact numbers were taken. Jack asked that he be able to tell his parents, rather than hearing it from the authorities, and they agreed. 

Phryne drove Jack in his car back to the city. They drove down dark county roads, neither quite ready for the rush and lights of a highway. The night was mild, a perfect, clear late-April evening. Jack opened the moon roof of his car, looking up at the sky. Phryne felt grateful for the flow of cool air, occasionally bringing whiffs of hyacinths and early lilacs. Neither spoke.

As they finally pulled up to his townhouse, she parked and walked him inside. 

“Is Jane home?”

“No, I asked her to go to a friend's house.”

“Oh.” He sat on the sofa looking vacant, looking nothing like himself. Unsure what else to do, she got him a glass of water.

“Do you want me to call someone for you?” she asked as she passed the glass to him.

“I can't deal with my parents yet. I asked Mac to come by when her shift ends in the early morning.”

He didn't look to be in shock, but she still felt uneasy leaving him. She turned on the radio, searching for the classical music station. She grabbed a glass of water for herself and returned with some fruit. He ate a few grapes mechanically, then looked up at her. “It's OK, Phryne. It's nothing I didn't long ago know.” She looked back at him, remembering that day on the roof top and the impossible hope he had held that she was still alive. “It doesn't make it easier,” she whispered, and at that he began to cry again.

She sat next to him and held his hand until he quieted. He was exhausted, she knew, likely having not slept at all in the hotel the night before. She cast about for a book to read to him. Among the coffee-table books on Chicago architecture and paintings in the Art Institute, she came across what must have been one of Jane's books, _How to Read a Book._

She pulled a pillow from behind her and scooted to the end of the sofa, putting the pillow next to her leg and indicating that he should lay his head on it. His docility as he complied tore at her heart nearly as much as his tears had. She began to read aloud.

“This is a book for readers and for those who wish to become readers. Particularly, it is for readers of books. Even more particularly, it is….”

She reached for his hair, lightly and soothingly stroking it. He was already nearly asleep.  
__

What must have been several hours later, Phryne woke with a noise of discomfort, her head lolling toward the back of the sofa and a resulting cramp in her neck. Jack woke immediately at the noise and sat up, only momentarily disoriented. He looked at her and, though barely conscious, understood what had happened and began rubbing her neck.

Phryne knew that the most common balm for the helplessness we feel when presented with death and dying is sex-- source of life, source of vitality, in many ways sex feels like an antidote. She thought of the last time she and Robert had made love, the evening an officer in her district, a friend, had been shot and killed. They had tentatively bridged the fraught distance between their separate bedrooms to comfort, to forget, and to rebel.

Yet knowing that sex was the most common response to death did not make her less likely to feel the sway of it.

So, when Jack's mouth was suddenly near hers, she met it with an eagerness that didn't entirely surprise her.

She moaned his name at his first few kisses which moved down her neck. He brought his hand to her ribcage and around to her breast and she moaned again. She pulled his head up to hers and kissed him deeply, with a sudden, frantic energy. As she grabbed his shirt, he rotated her so that her head was at the end of the sofa, and she pulled him atop her. 

She felt the length of his erection against her thigh, and answered by wrapping her leg around his, pressing her groin softly but deliberately into his. She reached her arm under his shirt, to his low back, feeling the soft hairs and warm skin there. He gave a low groan, and they began to buck against each other. 

“Come upstairs with me?” he said urgently against her mouth. 

She could only nod as she continued to kiss him, refusing to let his mouth go to answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Grüezi mitenand,
> 
> I'll be traveling to the US and won't have access to a computer, so I'll return to you with a longer-than-normal chapter toward the end of June. Meanwhile, please let your smutty imaginations run wild. ;-) Thanks for reading!
> 
> Auf Wiederschreiben,  
> -PromisesArePieCrust


	21. Chapter 21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the well wishes! In lieu of a postcard or souvenir, I brought you back some smut.

She felt like a miracle.

The ardent, frantic groping on the sofa continued up the stairs, until they reached the bedroom, where they fell into a more thoughtful pace, acknowledging the change in them and between them that was coming. He pulled the elastic band off the end of her braid and unwound her hair, releasing the scent of her shampoo. He threaded his fingers through the hair at her neck and brought his face there, smelling her and planting small kisses. He felt calm, but was shaking. 

Their near, mingled breathing was heavy and loud. He saw her tremble as she undid his shirt buttons, her face barely visible by the dim street lights. He wasn't sure his own fingers would have been much steadier if he had tried to help her, so he kissed her mouth instead, deep and sure, the kiss acting as a kind of dancing lead, gently guiding her to the bed. 

While he still wore his costume from the fundraiser, the sport clothing she had changed into were much easier to dispense with. They fumbled with his suspenders and slacks a bit, but eventually they managed to mostly disrobe. They lay in their underwear, propped up on their sides on the bed, holding each other's gaze. His heart swelled as he alternately kissed her, nuzzled her, and caressed her, and the noises she made in response sounded so subtle and sweet. He could see by the muted light that she was flushed and beginning to sweat, her body involuntarily rutting toward him or toward his hand. He was entranced. 

He couldn't get enough of the softness of her, she who always looked strung so tight, so sinewy and erect. He watched her intently; she seemed composed of impossible contractions--earthy and etherial. Soft and hard. Wizened and innocent. He kissed her again, wondering if she was real.

He gently squeezed one breast through her bra, then slid his thumb under the cup, around the strap to the fastenings in the back. He made to unhook it, but it was a feint, as he instead slid the thumb down her spine. She gasped, and he felt her smile against his cheek. “Tease,” she whispered. He softly chuckled and slid his palm back up and down her side, from cotton brief to bra, marveling at it all. Despite his deep sadness, he had never felt lighter.

Her caresses were warm and a little disorienting, distracting him as she moved her palms against his chest and shoulders, down his back, up his neck. He had imagined her touches before, and in his imagination they were tentative or unsteady, unpracticed perhaps, which had its own kind of appeal. Her apparent primness belied a warm lover, however, as instead he experienced the intoxicating, caring caresses of a woman who felt deeply and knew how to express it. 

He dipped a finger into the elastic of her cotton briefs, starting at her back, and moved it slowly around to her front. She inhaled quickly and softly, closing her eyes and pressing against him. The subtle, sweet noises he had admired earlier changed tenor to something raw and full of want. She looked up at him with eyes he hardly recognized and kissed him roughly, sliding her tongue around his and biting his lower lip. He slid his fingers deeper into her underwear, finding the perfect spot to nestle into between her legs, and she moaned into his mouth.

He began to move his hand in small circles, varying the pressure and speed. She clung to him and he held her, whispering endearments and encouragement. Her breathing became short, erratic pants until a long, shaking moan welled up from inside her and spilled over them both. She said his name on a shaky breath. He kissed her temple.

Several moments later, she grabbed the hand that was still in her underwear, stroking it with her thumb as she closed her eyes and caught her breath.

After a few more moments, she looked directly in his eyes. “I want you,” was all she said, but her voice was thick and urgent and not to be ignored. He didn't think he'd ever slid a condom on more quickly.

She peeled off her underwear and grabbed his hips as he knelt between her legs, slowly lowering himself on top of her. She smiled up at him, eyes shining. “Oh, Phryne,” he whispered. He fit himself inside her, moving just past her entrance, then made a gentle push, which made them groan in tandem. He pulled back, and pushed a little deeper, but she tightened and made a slight grimace. He pulled back slowly and rolled onto his back, bringing her on top of him. She thanked him with her eyes and situated herself comfortably atop him, slowly taking more of him in, closing her eyes and furrowing her brow. “Jack,” she whispered as she moved, eyes still shut. It sounded like a plea, and, whatever she wanted, in that moment he would have happily given it to her. 

Her movements were still slow, but were becoming more fluid. He stroked up her arms and around to her back, unhooking her bra, the last remaining garment between them. He slowly slid the straps off her shoulders, and they made eye contact as he cupped both of her breasts in his palms, running the pads of his thumbs over her nipples. She began to move up and down more quickly, and Jack threw his head back and closed his eyes, savoring the sensation. “Jack,” she said again, almost whimpering, “God, Jack, how much I want you.” He looked at her, disbelieving, then sat up and kissed her mouth with complete abandon. She wound her arms around his head and neck, kissing him back as she continued to move over him. He made an involuntary whimper of his own, then swung her around onto her back and sank into her completely. She arched up to meet his thrusts and moaned. 

He looked at her, awestruck. He didn't want to impress her or to be impressed by her. He just wanted her. To move with her. To be with her.

He tried to regain some composure, but it was gone, there was nothing left of who he thought he might be, or _how_ he thought he might be, as a lover or otherwise. There was nothing left; top to bottom, he was gone, empty but for joy. 

He came, and wept.


	22. Chapter 22

She heard him stir as she bent to the ground, looking for her socks.

“Leaving?”

“Mmhmm.”

“You don't have to.” His almost-smile was soft and welcoming and very easy to believe.

“Mac will be here soon. And I've got work in a few hours.” 

He nodded.

“I'll call you,” he said without thinking. She winced at the cliché, as did he. 

After locating and slipping into her socks, she sat down on the edge of the bed next to him and studied him, trying to read him. He'd been so tender the previous evening, so vulnerable, neither of which she suspected was particularly easy or natural for him. She wondered what the result of such intimacy might be, if he would pull back or move closer. She wondered which she wanted. 

She swept her hand up the back of his neck, feeling his hair flip through her fingertips and rubbing his scalp. He gave a pleased animal hum and smiled, to which she could only lean over and kiss him deeply.

–

Over a week later, he hadn't called. She didn't blame him, or think it was inexcusable; she knew he had a lot to deal with--his family and the ensuing emotional tumult of finding Janey, the funeral, as well as the care of his niece, who was probably very disturbed by events. She wanted with all her heart to shield him from some of it, but she stayed away. She'd sent a text message of general support, but to no response. He did not want her protection, as he'd made clear on several occasions, and, given how easily he usually reached out for people, he didn't want her company, either. She could at least offer him that, her distance. 

She also wasn't entirely sure what she would say to him if he did call. “I don't think you're good for me.” “I can't deal with another broken heart.” “I love you.” All of these would be true, but she was not eager to say any of them.

Mercifully, she was overly-busy. Her case load was at its limit and she stayed at the station well past her shift most nights. She was making some headway on Ernesto's murder, and, surprisingly, Officer Davidson had not begrudged the help. Phryne had been talking with some of the men who knew Ernesto both before and after his incarceration, and she got a sense that the favor he did to help get out of jail early involved his drug distribution network.

The detail that was bothering Phryne most was trying to clarify the connection between Foyle and Manuel Garcia. Who was the “old white guy” with an earpiece who gave Manuel the information about where to find Janey? Surely someone who knew Foyle, or knew someone who knew someone. And how on earth would he have been able to get Ernesto out of jail early? It spoke of very influential connections, and it had her worried. 

In addition, Manuel had just been released and, she presumed, was supposed to keep some kind of bargain. She was nervous for the young man; Ernesto had been shot down, and it was likely for dealings with the same man or group of people; it was entirely likely that Manuel could be as easily dispensed with.

It had been about a week and a half since she and Jack had found Janey and had spent the night together, and the memory of both were burned into her brain, making quiet moments very difficult for her. She had exhausted herself again today, starting the day with an extensive bike ride along the lake at 4:30 in the morning, before the path was crowded. She had worked in the station until around 8:30 tonight, then had a light dinner at a cafe which had tentatively opened its outdoor seating, hoping the May weather would continue to be kind. She spent an hour in the cafe's garden, admiring the budding trees and people-watching. Now, as she parked her car in front of her apartment, the time on the console read 9:45. She was pleasantly tired and did not imagine it would be difficult to fall asleep, despite any images of hands and shoulders and warm kisses that might haunt her.

She opened her car door and looked up, and, seeing a familiar silhouette at her front door, her face immediately felt warm. Jack slipped his phone into his pocket as he looked up to watch her. Her heart hammered too loudly, and her previous contented drowsiness vanished. She absently locked her car and walked a little unsteadily toward him, thinking she should greet him, but didn't know what to say. She walked up to him and smiled slightly instead, giving him a small nod, then opened her front door. He followed her inside, and she locked the door behind them.

She walked ahead of him down the entry, putting her keys in the small dish on the narrow table and slipping off her suit coat, all with much more care and awareness than would ordinarily be the case. She turned around, but couldn't meet his eyes, instead focusing intently on his torso. Without really meaning to, she moved toward him, reached for him, a flat palm to his rib cage, to steady herself, or push him away, or seduce him, maybe all three. She felt like a magnet drawn to metal, with no hope of resistance. They kissed with an intensity that floored her. 

They moved to the bed, and she made a low sound she hardly recognized as her own voice. Vaguely, ridiculously, she thought of her elementary school music teacher telling her to “sing from the diaphragm,” and how confused she was as to how sounds could come from a place deep in the body. How strange, to understand in an instant an instruction from 30 years ago. She kissed him more fervently and began to unhook his belt.

There was a flurry of panting and pulling, the metallic sheen of a condom wrapper, a warm feeling of fullness. She closed her eyes and felt happy.

His breath was hot and rhythmic at her cheek as they rocked and moaned, and he whimpered her name, sounding sad. “I'm here, Jack,” she said in response, taking his face in her hands and kissing him. “I have you.” He looked at her as though pulled from a daze, staring intently, nearly desperately into her eyes. He slowed his movements and looked changed, as though he had come to some decision. Phryne felt a moment of anxiety, not understanding what had just passed over him, but he became more steady and even in his movements, pulling her hips up, hoisting her, changing the depth and angle to a pitch that had her reeling and dislodging any further thoughts from her mind. He steadied himself with one arm and held her hip up with the other, momentarily releasing her hip so that he could take her hand and place it between her legs. She understood his intention, and nearly demurred, but the feeling as he re-situated himself inside of her made her groan with deep pleasure, and as she touched herself in addition, she felt herself fall away. She wondered if she'd ever want to do anything ever again besides make love to Jack Robinson. Moving in a frenzy, grabbing his hips, she came gloriously. He shouted as she did, then hugged her tightly.

Some moments later, he stood to remove the condom, and slid on his boxers. He sat on the bed, sweeping stray hairs away from her face and behind her ear. “I should go,” he said. She nearly gave a nod of understanding. “Stay,” she said instead, quickly, impulsively. It wasn't a question or a command, just a stated hope that seemed to touch him. He crawled into the bed next to her and put his head at her shoulder. They lay silently, gently stroking various limbs and body parts. 

After a while, perhaps an hour, she sat up to pull on her long underwear top against the cool night breeze from the window. He looked down at her shirt and smiled, placing a thumb at the tiny bow at her breastplate. “What?” she asked, genuinely confused. “Just fond memories of this piece from the fondue restaurant.” “You must be joking,” she said, laughing, ridiculously pleased. He shrugged and kissed her. 

“I really do have to go. I need to be on the North Shore very early tomorrow,” he nearly whispered. 

“Ok,” she responded equally quietly. 

As he dressed, she slid on the matching bottoms to her top, then walked him to the door. 

With a kiss and a backward glance, he left, taking her heart with him.


	23. Chapter 23

Jack pulled up to his parent's mansion, brow furrowed. His heart was heavy. He looked over at Jane in the passenger seat and tried to smile, but he was not looking forward to today, and he knew she wasn't either. 

They stepped out of his car and were greeted at the front door by a gently smiling young woman. He'd lost count of the number of domestic aides his father's temper had frightened off. This woman was still somewhat new, though Jack had met her before; he returned her smile, greeting her pleasantly by name. 

He saw caterers working frantically, preparing for the people who, in a few hours, would be milling about his family's home, dressed in sombre colors and sympathetically spouting platitudes. Jack had argued at length with his parents, suggesting, then practically _begging_ for a small family gathering for the funeral, but his father wouldn't hear of it. And, as ever, when his father bellowed, his mother cowed, regardless of her feelings on the matter. _It's just not worth the stress of arguing,_ he could imagine her saying, as she always had. 

Henry Robinson swaggered in, calm and suave. “How's my girl,” he growled playfully at Jane as he gave her a bear hug that she responded to with half-hearted pats on his back. Jack didn't know what Jane had known of the custody battle last fall, but she knew her mother wanted her to stay with Jack, and Jack noticed that she always approached Henry with a mix of caution and forced cheer. 

After a few words about school and summer plans to Henry, Jane walked over to greet her grandmother, whom she hugged enthusiastically. The two walked off, chattering and holding hands.

Jack turned to his father. “Son,” Henry said, offering his hand. “Hello, Dad.” Jack shook the offered hand but wasn't sure where to go from there. Fortunately the lead caterer walked in, nodding to Jack then turning to Henry. “Sorry to interrupt,” he began, but Jack said “No interruption. He's all yours,” and nodded a farewell as he walked to another part of the house, grateful for the easy escape.

Jack's usual method of dealing with his father was avoidance. Early on, he had tried to follow his mother's example and empathize with his father, or at least extend him a lot of patience. As she pointed out, Henry had suffered more ups and downs in his life than most people: growing up in extreme wealth, losing his father and said wealth as a teenager, regaining some of it in his twenties with some admittedly savvy business ventures, losing it again, living in extreme poverty, losing his daughter, inheriting a windfall from a reclusive uncle, effectively losing his older son Paul when he cut off communication because he married someone Henry found unsuitable due to her mental health history, and then _actually_ losing him in a car crash a few years later. 

But while Henry had not had an easy life, he also had been offered and squandered more chances than anyone Jack knew. And, after many years of consideration, he decided that there was nothing he admired about the man, nor anything he cared to emulate. 

He knew Henry disapproved of most of Jack's life choices, beginning with his decision to leave medical school to become an EMT. Following EMT training, he had been deeply aggrieved when Jack became a combat medic, which Jack privately admitted was a major reason he had done it. And now, as an adult, Jack had nothing that Henry could brag about to his colleagues-- no accolades or titles, no beautiful family-- he just ran about as a private investigator, thumbing his nose at traditional lifestyles. Finally, and not least of all, there was the court case last fall.

When Jane's mother decided she needed the help only a facility could offer, Henry had been very excited at having been 'right all along about that girl.' The memory of his crowing still made Jack clench his jaw. And then a judge had determined that his carefree, non-titled, non-accoladed, playboy of a son was better suited to take care of Jane than her grandparents. Henry (and his ego) took an enormous blow from that, and neither he, nor his already tenuous relationship with his son, had entirely recovered. 

But Jack was not here today for Henry. He was here for his mother. He would do nearly anything for Margaret, because while Henry had sunk into an alcoholic stupor after Janey's disappearance, Margaret remembered she had two other children who needed care, and while a melancholy settled over her that never quite went away, she at least remained loving and present to her sons. 

And, of course, he was here to honor Janey.

Trying to pass some time, Jack milled about some of the rooms, then found his way to the back yard, wiping the moisture from the bench near the garden to take a seat. It was still early, barely 7:00, and the dew and chilly mist suited his mood.

He had mourned Janey for many years, in many different ways--on her birthday, on the anniversary of her disappearance, whenever he saw siblings playing. He mourned Paul similarly, but losing an adult sibling had felt different than losing a child sibling. Why this particular day would be more upsetting he couldn't say exactly. Perhaps he felt uneasy about publicly sharing private pain. When Janey first went missing, the tabloid frenzy had robbed them of the opportunity to mourn privately. He sat, briefly revisiting that frightening time, unsure if that was why he was so anxious about today. His heart rate sped and he felt without mooring, until the memory of Phryne whispering “I have you” surfaced, overcame him, and he closed his eyes, his face warming and his heart stuttering.

He hadn't intended to sleep with her last night. It was hard to pin down what happened--an imperceptible lean, a quick, startling glance at a beautiful mouth. When Phryne kissed him, the rest of the world seemed colorless. 

He loved her; that was not in question. That, in fact, had been obvious to him for weeks. What was less clear to him was _how_ to love her. Or if he should. His examples were not excellent, and he feared hurting her.

And what could she feel about him? The things she knew about him really were superficial. Perhaps she knew him better than most, but they hadn't exactly revealed themselves to each other. What could Phryne Fisher, the most noble and upright person he had probably ever met, want with someone like him? He put his head in his hands, trying to massage some clarity into his thinking.

“There you are, honey. We were just getting ready to go to the funeral home,” he heard his mother call from behind him. “The limo is around front.”

Jack stood. In the distance, they heard Henry bark at one of the maids. Jack rolled his eyes and Margaret took a step toward the house as though to intervene. 

“Mom, really, why do you bother?” he asked nearly aggressively.

She looked at him with actual surprise. 

“You don't need to loathe him, Jack. He carries around more than enough self-loathing.” 

Jack gave her a doubtful look.

“It's true.” She spoke with more conviction, nearly anger, in her voice than he'd ever heard.

“There's no secret, Jack. If you want to be with somebody, do. If you don't, don't. No one else's opinion can take into account everything. There are things we can know but can't articulate.”

She turned abruptly, and he watched her plod back to the house, unsteady in her dress shoes on the soft grass.


	24. Chapter 24

Phryne trudged through the door of her apartment, miserable and rain-soaked. She left work on time, which was early for her, so she knew she was in a bad way. After waking up with the worst head-cold of her life, she had pushed through her work, mostly catching up on paperwork and emails, but after eight hours of this, was fried. And then there was that little nugget she learned from Officer Davidson today. 

She heaved a phlegmy sigh.

Jack had texted her a few days ago, three days after his unexpected visit to her apartment. She had asked him not to come over then, citing late nights at work, but she was truthfully feeling very uneasy about seeing him again. He hadn't mentioned that Janey's funeral was the morning following his last visit to her apartment—that tidbit she'd found out accidentally. Why this bothered her so much she couldn't quite say at first, but eventually she worked it out: she felt like someone to make him feel better when he was sad, someone with a _function_ for him and not _Someone_. And when she wanted to really rub salt in the wound, she told herself she had joined Jack's parade. The pilates instructors, flight attendants, Chinese heiresses— she was just one more of the women who wander in and out of Jack Robinson's life.

On her way home, she had swung by the drug store for some cough syrup, hoping to at least get some sleep and alleviate the cough-induced headache she'd been nursing all afternoon. She tore into the cough syrup, striped off her clothes and fell into bed, exhausted.

Several hours later, still hacking horribly after her nap, she wrapped herself in her robe and took another measure of cough syrup. Settling into an armchair, she tried to read a few case files, but felt a little light-headed from the medicine. Eventually she ambled to her small kitchen and rummaged for some food. 

Pulling out some questionable leftovers, she heard her phone indicate a new message, and, opening it, saw that she had missed some messages from Jack during her nap. The last one, sent 10 minutes ago, read 'I'm in the neighborhood, mind if I swing by?' She began to respond and simultaneously heard a knock at her door. She muttered a word she seldom used, but when she did, she meant it.

In her snotty, rumpled glory, she opened the door.

“Hi, Jack,” she began, clearing her throat. 

“Oh, you're sick.” His expression was serious, but unreadable. They stared at each other. 

She began speak, but was relieved of having to find something to say by a ferocious coughing fit. She ran to the kitchen for some water, gesturing for him to come in. She sipped slowly to ease her throat and give her some time to decide what she wanted to say. 

“I was wondering...” Jack began, looking slightly embarrassed. He paused and seemed unable to continue, looking around her apartment. Losing patience and feeling embarrassed herself, she interrupted whatever he was wondering about.

“I've been working with Officer Davidson on a few cases,” she started. Jack looked a little surprised at the topic. “She mentioned that you've been in contact with Manuel.” He didn't move or try to speak. 

She continued, “Manuel told her, extremely reluctantly and only under the threat of arrest, that you paid him for one of Ernesto's old phones." Still nothing. She began to move around the kitchen, feeling more and more angry. "I admit it was a clever way to get at his contacts. She'd confiscated his current phone but didn't think to look for old ones. Davidson figures you've gotten to most of his friends before she did.” She once again looked directly at him. “ _Paying_ for evidence, and essentially giving important people in an investigation time to coordinate their stories before the police get to them. Acting in a way that benefits you without considering the mess you might be leaving behind." She shook her head and covered her eyes. "I feel like I have an enormous blind-spot when it comes to you, Jack.”

“Phryne—”

“Yes, you're smart, and yes, you get results sometimes, but you take unnecessary risks. And you don't concern yourself with the work of others.” She could feel her voice rising and tried to restrain it.

“I take calculated risks. I know what I'm doing, Phryne.” 

“You don't. You're guessing," she spat at him.

After the air had settled some, she spoke again. "When I thought you'd been shot, Jack, I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think straight. It was unbearable.” She could hear the desperation in her voice. She knew what she was telling him, what the subtext of this statement was, and saw that he understood.

“I am who I am, Phryne. I can't give that up.” It felt like a slap in the face. 

“I'm not asking you to,” she managed.

“You're giving me up.”

She nodded.


	25. Chapter 25

Jack opened the door to his attached garage, moving from his air-conditioned home to the dense, sweltering August air. The sticky heat, mingled with the smell of gas and oil, assaulted his lungs, as he searched his storage area for his suitcase. His luggage had been disused for nearly a year, certainly the longest stretch since he'd owned it. He hefted it from the shelf and retreated to the cool air.

He hadn't seen Phryne in months, since that last, disastrous visit to her apartment in early May. He still felt a pang at how things had ended, and he missed their partnership, but he also felt some liberation. His life was ticking along as it had before he'd met her; it was familiar, it was safe. He occasionally considered contacting her, but right now, lizard brain felt secure and at ease. 

As far as he knew, nothing had been resolved concerning Ernesto's murder. Presumably, as the only witness, he would have heard. His own investigation on that matter had run dry months ago--none of Ernesto's friends were able to tell him anything about how he got out of jail early, how he repaid that debt, or what might have been the motivation for his shooting. Jack had contacted Officer Davidson, the lead investigator on Ernesto's murder, telling her of his travel plans and giving her his contact information if she needed him to identify anyone or needed further testimony. 

Jane was at a remote summer camp in Michigan, and Jack was going to fly out there to visit, taking the opportunity to put some more hours toward his pilot license renewal. He thought after his visit with Jane he would continue along the Great Lakes. He had no solid plans, other than needing to be back in town toward the end of August when Jane returned, but he felt comfortable and excited in the knowledge that adventure always found him.

He'd begun packing his suitcase when his phone buzzed, indicating a call from Mac.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Jack. Come to the hospital. Something's up.”

“Are you OK?”

“Yeah, I'm fine. It's just...I've lost two homeless men today who came into the ER, and found a few more who died this weekend from heat-related illnesses. I did some tests. You should come.”

Her vagueness set off alarm bells. 

“Yeah, OK. I'm on my way.”  
__

In Mac's cool, clean office, he took a chair, listening to Mac sound a little more rattled than normal and looking at some notes that she had handed him. He heard her stand and walk to the door to greet someone else, and turned to see Phryne nearly fall backwards at the sight of him. 

Jack stood, nodding to Phryne in a way that probably looked as uneasy as it felt. Mac seemed puzzled, but continued talking. 

“I was just catching Jack up on some of what we discussed over the phone. Of course we occasionally see heat-related deaths in a summer, but it was odd to me that the two I actually saw were presenting symptoms that seemed outside of normal heat-stroke and organ failure. They seemed oddly...blissful. I spoke with another of the doctors and he told me he'd had a couple the night previously too. All of them homeless.” Mac looked up at them, and Jack looked over at Phryne, who was studiously not looking at him. Mac continued, “I did a test on the stomach contents. I'll go grab the report.” She walked down the corridor, her shoes echoing loudly in the awkward silence that Jack and Phryne maintained for several seconds.

“Hello, Phryne.” He thought he sounded cheerful and un-intimidating enough.

“Hi, Jack.” She looked at him to speak, but it seemed as though it were a struggle.

“You seemed startled.” 

“Davidson told me you were leaving town. I just didn't expect to see you.”

Mac returned with a manilla folder and handed it to Phryne, which she opened. She took a few seconds to read it before looking back up at Mac, her face incredulous. Jack, unable to take the suspense any longer, took the folder to see what they were gawking at.

“I know Foyle was one of the last prisoners executed before capital punishment became illegal in Illinois. So this...gave me pause.”

Jack felt his head swim. 

The report indicated that the stomach contents of all five men included a special cocktail that Foyle, a chemist, had devised for his twisted crusade in the 80s. The admittedly clever concoction was a part of Foyle's case file, but not commonly known, nor, in fact, easy to replicate.

Phryne walked up to Jack, and coaxed him into chair. He must have looked as shocked as he felt. 

After a few seconds he looked up at her, sensing she must be thinking the same thing that he was. They spoke simultaneously: “Manuel.” 

Tenuous as it was, their only living link to Foyle was the former inmate who, along with his cousin, somehow, for some reason, got information they didn't ask for.


	26. Chapter 26

They rode together to find Manuel. She possibly should have emphasized that it was a police matter and asked Jack to continue with his planned trip, but she expected that he would be difficult to dissuade, and, since the matter was related to an investigation in which he was a witness, as well as possibly related to his sister's killer, she ceded. At least Jack agreed to travel in the police vehicle; she was grateful to be driving, to have something to focus on, even if it didn't distract her completely from the blaring fact of his proximity.

She considered making small talk, but 'How have you been?' would sound too glib, and truthfully she was uncomfortable with any answer he could give. If he was well, she'd be jealous because the last months had been heartbreaking for her. If he was suffering, which she doubted, she would also feel terrible about that.

As though reading her mind and purposefully being contrary, he spoke lowly: “How have you been?” 

He sounded sincere, not social, and she felt a prick at her eyes. She looked to her left, toward the turn onto Manuel's street, and, more importantly, away from him. 

“Fine, Jack. I've been fine.”

As she looked out the windows to see the addresses on the houses, she refocused on the two cases which were now merging into one, reviewing what she knew about Ernesto's shooting and the deaths of the homeless men, as well as what she knew about Foyle. While in prison, Manuel spoke to someone who was in communication with someone else via an earpiece—if he was using a go-between, the mystery man at the other end of the line was probably someone who would be recognizable, and someone with the authority (or strings) to shorten prison sentences; also, this was someone who knew where to find Janey, and, apparently, someone who knew how to recreate Foyle's brilliant, flavorless concoction that rendered his victims completely docile, even pleased to be so. 

Foyle had been a chemist, and he was obsessed with the notion of purity and purification. He had campaigned for a “cleansed Chicago,” essentially advocating eugenics, as he imagined a city without people whose IQs were below a certain level or disabled people or even people who are prone to rule-breaking; there would be no poverty, no drugs, no unhealthy people in his imagined utopia, no one whom he deemed unfit. To his mind, he was a hero, a redeemer. He sought out healthy, beautiful “sacrificial lambs” which, through their deaths, would help him purify the city. 

In retrospect, Phryne realized that it was not a stretch that someone who was seeking to eliminate the homeless population would have some connection with Foyle. 

“One of Foyle's classmates,” she said, finally sharing her thoughts as she turned off the engine.

“I was thinking that; or colleagues, but his program was not the kind of thing you'd discuss at work. More likely to be someone he met at college. He graduated in the late '70s, so his classmates would be in their late 50s or early 60s by now.”

“The 'old white guy' who talked to Manuel in jail?”

“Maybe, but probably not, since the information about Janey came through him as a go-between. I can't imagine Foyle having a posse, but I can imagine maybe he'd have one confidant. I think the confidant would be whoever was at the other end of the earpiece.”

“Do you think that was who shot Ernesto?” 

“Could be. He would be around the right age.” 

They stopped and collected their thoughts, each mentally following the trail of various scenarios.

“Are we guessing that it was Ernesto who poisoned the men last winter?” Phryne offered.

“Mike was the homeless guy we talked to that night we were out walking, right? He said it was a lady. But I'm guessing Ernesto was probably involved.”

“Right. Okay, let's see what Manuel has to say, shall we?” 

\--

Manuel stood in the kitchen, shifting his weight from foot to foot. His mother stood guard behind him.

“I only saw the guy who visited me in jail once since I was released,” he began, speaking so quietly they had to lean in toward him to hear. “He introduced me to this woman. He called her Susan, but I know it's not her name. I said 'Susan' to her once, and it took her too long to realize I was talking to her.” 

Phryne looked at Jack, who immediately met her look. They'd found the lady Mike was referring to.

“But I do nothing really. This lady, I basically escort her around to some of the places I used to deal, and she hands out water bottles. I'm supposed to keep her safe, keep on the lookout, let people know she's with me and then escort her back to her car. She parks on my street.” 

“How do you set up these meetings?”

“She calls me the day before. It's a different number every time.”

“And did you take her out last week?”

“Yeah. Twice.”

“We'll need a description of her and a record of any contact you've had with her.” Phryne could see him begin to panic. “Manuel, this is serious, but stay calm. We're going to help you.” The boy's eyes filled with tears.

“This is what Ernesto was killed about, isn't it?”

“Yes, we think so.” Manuel nodded and sat, pulling out his phone and beginning to write the dates and times 'Susan' had contacted him.

After they'd taken a description and collected the information he'd written for them, they prepared to leave. 

“What do I do if she calls?”

“Take the call, set it up like normal, then call me,” she said, handing him her card. He shook as he took it, and she took his hand and looked him in the eye, modulating her voice lower: “You're OK, Manuel. It's going to be OK.” He nodded.

\--

Outside the house, the sweltering air immediately slowed them. Jack looked at her.

“Now what?”

“Now, we have a date with college yearbooks from the late '70s. Thankfully Foyle went to school in-state. I contacted the station before we left the hospital, and the books are waiting for us.”

She marveled that she could say it so breezily, that they could work together easily after such an emotional split. While she still did not relish the idea of spending hours with him in her office, a small part of her heart was singing.


	27. Chapter 27

His gaze stayed mostly on the yearbooks in front of him. Occasionally, Phryne's braid would swing over her shoulder as she looked with him through the roster of names and photos of the people Foyle had gone to graduate and undergraduate school with. And occasionally his heart would clench, watching her. He didn't know what he expected when he finally saw her again, but somehow he didn't imagine it would be this distracting, watching the hand that swept her hair back over her shoulder, watching the rise and fall of her chest, watching her lips twitch involuntarily as she thought.

“I need a break,” she muttered, rubbing her eyes. Jack checked his watch. The day had gone more quickly than he realized—it was already nearly 7pm. 

“We should eat,” he said in a casual tone, though it was not a casual suggestion. Sharing a meal would mean they were on more solid ground, that their tenuous truce while they worked was more secure. It would mean she felt safe. Awkward moments passed as she considered, and he began to back track. “Or we could--” 

“Yeah, OK.” She stood and lifted a small box which overflowed with files. “I just need to return these to the archives,” she said. There were several small piles and small boxes around the floor of her office. 

“Cleaning house?” Jack asked as he rose from the other side of the desk.

“Something like that.” She leaned against her desk to pull a couple of files from her inbox and plop them on top of the stack she was holding, then turned around, resting against the desk as she readjusted her grip on the pile. “I'll be right back,” she said, looking over at him briefly. He nodded, then stopped her. “Hang on,” he said, “your necklace.” 

Her necklace had become unclasped, and without thinking he reached for the pearls, opening the clasp and sliding the closure together before he registered the flush that was creeping up her chest and cheeks at his proximity. His gesture to close the necklace had been sure and seamless, but now, as his hands suspended near her neck, he felt overly self-aware and clumsy. He slowly withdrew from her personal space as their gazes held. He saw her increasingly rapid heartbeat disturbing the smooth fabric of her blouse. 

There was a minor noise in the hall-- some shuffling and someone getting rowdy in the distance. The hypnotic moment ended, and he stumbled backward into one of the boxes on the floor. Phryne cleared her throat and hastily slid past him, saying some kind of flustered, inverted sentence whose gist was that they should call it a night, as she passed through the door and into the hall. 

Jack sat down in the visitor's chair and ran his hands through his hair. A few moments later he pulled back one of the folding edges of the box he'd stumbled into. He'd heard some things shift and wanted to be sure nothing had broken. Everything seemed OK--he noticed a mug with some pencils in it, which had tapped against a framed photo and probably made the noise he'd heard. He gave a cursory glance at the photo, but when he understood what it was, had a hard time looking away. 

It was 22 year-old Phryne, dressed in white, looking up adoringly and hopefully at her new husband. The day was sunny, and flowers framed the edge of the shot but it was her beautiful, wide smile that anyone's eyes would be drawn to. 

Perhaps it was how unbearably young and trusting she looked that both compelled him to look and made him desperate to look away. He wondered if it had been worth it to her, knowing how painfully things had ended. He suspected he knew the answer. Phryne knew what Jack knew--that loss is as much a part of living as love is.

He heard her in the hall and shifted his gaze away from the photo, but as he did, his eyes fell on another face, and he felt a chill run down his spine.

She walked in and he spoke immediately. “Phryne, this man...” he pointed to the smiling, kind-eyed man patting Robert on the back.

“My father-in-law? Former--”

“--do you, is there a more recent photo of him somewhere?”

Her movements slowed and she was getting as unsettled as he was.

“Yeah, I'm sure there's one online...George worked for the city for his whole career...” She sat down limply at her desk, as though she knew what was coming. She opened her laptop and pulled up a photo on the city webpage from a recent event, showing George with an arm each around Sydney and Robert. Her face lost color as she slowly turned toward Jack. He nodded, confirming what he knew was her fear. 

“This is the man I saw shoot Ernesto.”


	28. Chapter 28

Back in the station, Phryne watched Robert uneasily. He sat in the main waiting area, unable to speak. He looked up at Phryne, searching her face, hoping she could make sense of things for him. His father, his fiance, both in custody and accused of terrible things. She couldn’t offer him anything; her own heart was broken too, and they both looked down at their hands. Behind them, a placard containing photos of former Chiefs of Detectives, his father’s photo included among them, hung proudly, while the inscribed unofficial motto on the placard, “Chicago: The City that Works,” mocked them. 

It was a motto that had appealed to Phryne, especially after the war; it was not a city that worked well or worked poorly, a city that worked for you or against you. It was just a city, a collection of people doing their best, managing what comes their way with the tools they have available. It was neutral, unqualified--working, moving along. Not great nor terrible. Just extant. Though that was before. Now was a different story.

It was Jack’s early lead in their investigation way back in February that was the key. Pete Dawn, the Director of Public Affairs at the mayor’s office, a man who worked very closely with Sydney Fletcher, had, in fact, gone to graduate school with Foyle. And then the dominos fell--George Sanderson, attached to Dawn through their many years of public service, Sydney Fletcher, George’s god-daughter, who worked closely with Dawn...after the failed Olympic bid, they had been hoping to clean up the city by “managing the undesirables”...namely, drugging them and letting the extreme climate get rid of them. With a more attractive city, a vulnerable population extinguished, they hoped to improve the appeal for visiting events and tourists.

Phryne wasn’t sure what kind of charges would stick for the poisonings, since the poison wasn’t actually what killed the men. George, on the other hand...Jack had seen him shoot Ernesto, the first man they had recruited to unwittingly help them. Phryne watched Officer Davidson interview George through the one-sided glass, her jaw tight. He was a man she had admired, one whose career she had initially set out to imitate. She marvelled at how love and hate are two sides of the same coin; that it’s impossible to hate someone you don’t feel strongly about. She couldn’t feel indifferent about the man who had delighted in her marriage to his son, who had guided her through her career. She couldn’t feel the numbness or at least sense of justice that she normally felt at the conclusion of a case. Her heart hammered as she watched him confess. She wiped her streaming tears with the back of her hand.

She was very similar to George, as Robert had often pointed out. They had the same sense of uprightness, the same thirst for the unambiguous. They sought black and white, to know the right way to act, to be, to Know the Right Way.

In the waiting room, Robert reached for Phryne’s hands and pulled her toward him, laying his head against her abdomen while she stood in front of him. He began to weep quietly, and she stroked his hair. At the edge of her vision, she saw Jack turn and walk out the door of the station.

Jack-- the man who did not follow a protocol, who did not care a whit about uprightness. The man who didn’t see anything as black and white, who was comfortable with ambiguity, with a fluid sense of right and wrong. And a man who was the most humane, kindest, strongest person she knew. With a lump in her throat, she watched him climb into his car, and made a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Greetings-
> 
> Here is an interesting article from The Straight Dope Chicago about the history of the phrase City that Works, as well as what Cecil Adams thinks Chicago should be called instead. ;-) <http://chicago.straightdope.com/sdc20090903.php>
> 
> I’ll be flying unexpectedly to the City that Works tomorrow (as well as beautiful Madison, WI), and will, once again, be without my computer or internet for a bit. I’ll have to post the last chapter when I return in another 10-14 days. For those who can’t wait, or are worried: our protagonists find each other. I’m more interested in how challenging relationships work than how they fall apart. <3
> 
> Wishing all of you all the best,  
> -M


	29. Chapter 29

At 1:00 a.m., Jack sat on his sofa, still restless after a long run. The previous morning seemed like a lifetime ago, though Mac had called him and Phryne to the hospital a scant 12 hours ago.

This evening he’d run along the lake to exhaust his body and clear his head, but the attempt had failed on both fronts, seeming only to energize him and make his thinking more circular. Specifically, he found himself thinking repeatedly about Phryne and Robert, the kindness and familiarity between them, how easy and perfect they’d seemed together. Jack periodically stood up, hoping to be inspired to do something, but would end up pacing. Eventually, he turned on the radio and listened with half an ear as he drank a beer.

Nearly an hour later he began to feel settled enough to at least go upstairs and shower. He was turning out lights and locking doors when he heard a tentative knock, likely to belong only to one person, and the thought sent electricity to his extremities. He looked through the peephole and saw Phryne standing on his doorstep. 

Opening the door, he tried to check his emotions. Strands of her hair had come out of her braid and had began to curl at the nape of her neck in the heat. Her suit blouse stuck to her with sweat. She was stunning.

“Sorry, it’s late,” she said in mellow voice, looking suddenly at her watch, only just realizing the hour. 

“No, I’m happy to… It’s not so late.” 

He stood back from the door to let her in. “You were with Robert?” he said as she walked through, and, he was sure, not as casually as he’d hoped.

“I was. I took him to his sister’s house. They…we...we’re all…” She took a breath and reached for the door frame to the adjacent room, an odd gesture that seemed out of character and spoke to him of her exhaustion. “It’s hard to know where to start,” she continued, laughing breathily and touching the doorway in a manner that looked bashful. “None of us feel any footing beneath us.” She paused and looked up at him with eyes soft with sadness.

After a moment she seemed to remember herself and straightened away from the door, arms at her side. He saw through her mask, but was unsure what kind of comfort to offer--everything he considered seemed too intimate. He was about to suggest a drink when she moved toward him, her stride a little unsure, but her eyes steady, purposeful and easy to read. She placed her palms on his chest. 

He froze for several seconds, then subtly bent toward her, feeling dizzy. He spoke plaintively into her hair. “Phryne…” he began, but didn’t know where to finish. He swayed, leaning toward her with as much tension as he leaned away from her. 

She bounced up toward him and he leaned forward, his fingers sinking into her hips, and then he was clutching at her, kissing her, all finesse gone. He wanted her, though each kiss was a pleasure mixed with unease. Finally, he pulled back. “I don’t...I’m not what you want,” he spoke into her mouth, his eyes closed.

Her response was an aggressive, passionate kiss. 

Suddenly he was walking her backward across the room, his tongue reaching to the back of her mouth. They reached the buffet at the end of the far wall and he hoisted her upon it, bringing her hips even with his. 

They clutched and clawed, moving in a panic. She unbuttoned her slacks, then pulled him toward her, humming longingly at the feeling of his arousal next to her.

“I’m safe,” she murmured, nuzzling his neck and looking at him, shyly asking him the same question. “Me too,” he nodded, barely breathing, adding “birth control?”

She pulled at his running shorts and underwear and, stroking him, brought him close to her. “I’m not going to get pregnant,” she said, a small shadow over her words, but she kissed him hard, and, sliding her underwear down, pressed him against her again, then pressed him into her. He responded with a small, surprised buck and then was lost to the world.

He tried to wait, to not come too quickly, but their eagerness, the noises she made, the long-forgotten feeling of skin on skin, his hardness against her warmth... panting into her ear, tearing at her blouse, he cried out abruptly. 

They breathed together, slowly relaxing. He began to straighten their clothing. “Sorry,” he whispered. “Don’t apologize,” she replied, kissing the corners of his mouth, “just take me upstairs.” 

\--

He gratefully peeled off his running clothes and started the shower. They didn’t speak as the water fell on them, nor did they kiss. Jack took the bottle of body wash and put some in his palm, lathered it, and gently began to touch her torso, sliding the soap up her neck and down to her bottom. After long minutes, she did the same to him, each cautiously and delightedly exploring the other, the curve of a calf, the flair of the shoulder. By the time they turned off the water, exhaustion overtook both of them. After an attentive smear of lotion and a light towel-down, they curled up naked in the bed and fell asleep in seconds. 

Several hours later, Jack woke with a long, slow intake of breath. He found his arms around her as she nuzzled into his chest. She stirred at the change in his breathing and slowly turned her head up to look at him. He skimmed his thumb along her arm and smiled at her. They moved together in tandem, she straining up toward him, he bending down toward her, meeting in a warm, exciting kiss that accelerated to a full-body lunge. As their bodies smoothed against each other, and then as they joined, she looked at him, wanting to express something, but still too overwhelmed to express all. 

“I trust you,” she whispered against his cheek. 

“I trust you, too,” he responded, aware of the subtext but unwilling to address it now. He closed his eyes and began to move more purposefully, and she moaned and arched toward him, panting, soon unable to make any conversation. 

\--

In a relaxed, post-coital posture, winded around each other, she looked over to one side of the room. “Where are you going?” she asked.

“Nowhere,” he responded, puzzled. 

“Well…” she gestured to the half-packed suitcase on his floor.

“Oh. Right. A trip to visit Jane in Michigan, then a few more stops I’m still sorting out. I’ll have my plane.”

“Ahh.” 

She looked at her hands. “Gone long?”

“I don’t know,” he said truthfully.

She nodded and began to stand. 

After a short moment’s thought, he took her hand, and she looked over at him. 

“Come with me.”

She paused. “What did you say?”

He pulled her arm and twisted her under him on the bed. She smiled into his enthusiastic kiss. 

“I said, come with me please, Phryne Fisher.”  
__

The airfield is small and remote. Phryne teeters both when she sees the tiny, surely wind-sensitive aircraft, and also with the sheer giddiness she feels around the pilot. He shoots her a high-wattage smile that she studiously does not melt at, then, moments later, when he touches her elbow as they strap into the aircraft, melts completely.

The air is calm and the world is peaceful as they gain altitude. The city’s gridded, clogged streets seem quaint and toy-like, while the sun rises above Lake Michigan and the curvature of the earth becomes visible. She speaks into the headset, more loudly than she needs to, her voice unsteady with the adrenaline from the fear and excitement that course through her: “This is quite an adventure, Jack Robinson.” He smiles and slowly leans over to peck her lips, giving her a steady look, full of joy, comfort and warmth. “It is,” he agrees.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been such a pleasure having you with me on this longer piece. Thank you so much for engaging with comments--it is my favorite part of writing. Sad to have this one end, but I look forward to hanging out with you for a while in another piece. :-)  
> Cheers,  
> -M

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Join the Club](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6460243) by [Katinka31](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katinka31/pseuds/Katinka31)




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